


Cracks in the Mirror

by deervsheadlights



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Reality, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Dimension Travel, Emotional Constipation, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internal Conflict, M/M, Omega Tony Stark, Parent Tony Stark, Post Mpreg, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, as in: the au universe is a/b/o, the canon one isn't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19373641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights
Summary: Steve volunteers to bring back the Infinity Stones to their respective points and places in time. It should be a simple enough task: Put the Stones where they belong. Return home (or what's left of it).Except, the Tesseract has other ideas.





	1. the cracks

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for clicking!  
> fair warning: this fic isn't finished and very much a wip. depending on whether people take interest in it, i'll try to update it sooner rather than later.
> 
> another disclaimer: i'm still not sure about the extents of the tesseract's powers, but i thought i could get away with this. also, SHIELD is still up and running up to/after endgame for convenience's sake. the fic takes off after infinity war and explores canon stevetony's relationship for a bit before going full au.
> 
> please lmk if you find any grammatical/spelling errors – i'm not a native speaker and everything helps.
> 
> without further ado, enjoy reading!
> 
> ( **edit:** fixed a few formatting issues.)

 

After the snap, they lose. 

 

‘ _We’ll lose together’_ turns into yet another lie. They're apart, disassembled. Broken, all of them. As he sits there in the dirt, numb with a pain that’s yet to come, he looks up into the sky with tears in his eyes.

 _I’m sorry,_ he thinks. It’s a thought he’s recited so many times the sound of it inside his head is bitterly familiar. Recited it in the hope that one day, he might be able to say the words out loud, with all the sincerity a letter wouldn’t convey.

But the sky he’s looking at is dark and veiled in clouds, and Tony ~~won’t~~  might not come back.

They return to the compound. The world's in ashes, the people mourning, and there's no-one left to care about bureaucracy or the heroes that failed them.

The strange device left behind by Fury brings a glowing woman whose powers are unlike anything they've ever encountered, and she does the impossible. 

When Tony returns, his life’s hanging by a thread. 

He pulls through, because it’s Tony, and if he can’t, who possibly could? Tony makes it out the other side, except his hollowed, bloodshot eyes talk not only of loss and defeat but also a bitter, quiet acceptance that scares Steve to death. He never thought he'd see the day where he looks at Tony Stark and has the broken shell of a man who once stood tall and proud even in the face of doom and destruction look back at him, but he finds out that there is indeed a first time for everything.

Eventually, Tony's had enough. He erupts in raw, scathing rage and nips Steve's hopes in the bud. (Steve lets him.) There's no plan, no way out, no reconciliation. “No trust, liar,” Tony spits, his gaze acrid and voice venomous. 

 _I’m sorry,_ Steve thinks, the words having turned stale and meaningless.

He rips the arc reactor off his chest and presses it into Steve's palm in a gesture that tells so much more than words ever will and causes Steve’s heart to shrivel and morph into something ugly inside his ribcage. 

This is the last he sees of Tony in a very, very long time. But even then, through these weeks and months and _years_ , he holds onto the arc reactor – holds and guards it like he's never done Tony's heart enough. During the worst of nights, it seems to be the only thing tethering him to reality.

 

Tony moves on. They don't.

 

After five years, Scott Lang (re)appears, and his clumsy explanation of how the Quantum Realm might be able to send them back in time spikes a flame of hope nobody would've thought possible.

But they need him, too. They need Tony. (And God, Steve does, but that’s of little importance compared to what’s at stake.)

Steve sees his daughter, for the very first time. She looks every bit like her father and Tony looks at her in all the ways that say ‘I’d set the world on fire just to keep you warm’. Something he’s thought forgotten and withering within him stings hot and painful and tries clawing its way up his throat, but he doesn’t let it. This isn’t about him, and he needs to let it go; Tony’s happy, as a husband to Pepper and a father to Morgan, and that’s the way it should be.

Tony's calmer, quieter. The lake house isn't the kind of place he'd have thought him to settle down in, but Steve can see why. Maybe he needs this, after everything that happened.

After everything that happened, Tony also refuses to help, with a twist to his lips and the home he built from the ashes in mind.

Steve doesn't hold it against him. Then again, he's also not surprised when he sees the man drive up to the compound a few days later, nervous energy hidden behind a smirk and a fleeting mention of ‘oh yeah, and I’ve solved time travel, by the way’ because that’s just who Tony is.

He gives Steve the shield back. Steve doesn’t have anything to return except for a stammer and an incredulous smile as he takes the familiar weight of it out of Tony’s hands.

They come to an understanding, of sorts.

Despite the fear, despite the highest of stakes, Tony doesn't think of sitting this one out. _Can’t,_ maybe, just like the rest of them. 

Their plan works out. It's nerve-wrecking and every minute detail has the power to ruin their scheme, but they make it, with a slight detour to the 70s. Only Clint returns alone and guilt-ridden, the Soul Stone in his hand and Natasha gone.

Steve doesn’t pretend there’s any use in hiding his grief. Despite his leader-shtick, Nat was essentially the person who kept the remainders of the Avengers (for the most part) together and occupied in the recent years. And now, after stepping up and holding on through the worst of it, she wouldn’t even get to see the fruits of her labor.

 

After the second snap, Thanos returns.

 

The compound crumbles and the earth seems to open up and swallow what's left. Steve is expecting to see his end, here, as he faces Thanos with bitter determination and a broken shield.

But then, the sky opens and alights with sparks. He watches as the lost heroes emerge from dozens of portals and it might be one of the most beautiful things he's ever had the fortune of witnessing.

 

After the third snap, they win.

 

It doesn’t feel like winning when the price paid for victory is this immense.

Tony lies there so very still and quiet he could’ve been gone with the wind had they not all already been by his side.

As Pepper, Rhodey and Peter crowd around him, Steve keeps to the background. Even with their relationship mostly salvaged, differences set aside and wounds scabbed over with time – it’s not his place anymore. Not here, not in the very end.

He's barely responsive, his body broken. Maybe part of his brilliant mind is, too. He's still breathing, but it's like he's already gone.

Steve would've taken his place in a heartbeat if he could.

Tony's eyes wander around aimlessly, wide and glazed over as they speak to him, last consoling words for a man on the brink between life and death.

He doesn't seem to be in pain when he goes. His last moments are, despite the tragedy of his sacrifice, rather peaceful. 

"You can rest now," Pepper tells him. 

And, for maybe the first time in his life, Tony listens.

 

It's over. 

 

Everyone gathered around him is almost frozen in the moment, motionless and disbelieving as the arc reactor gives one last, defiant flicker and then shuts down. It's a cruel metaphor. 

The light's off, the show is over, and Tony is gone.

 _I'm sorry,_ Steve thinks. Regret doesn't change anything, in the end. They've all had to learn that lesson the hard way.

He doesn't wipe the tears away when they finally come, collecting where the cowl covers his face and dripping over his cheeks.

For a few minutes, the world seems to come to a standstill in silent grief over the loss of its best defender. The noise of battle and bloodcurdling screams fade into somber tranquillity as the reality of Tony's sacrifice takes hold.

Steve sees it in himself to take upon the responsibility of breaking the shell-shocked silence. The body is still there, and somebody's going to have to move.

Pepper cries in Rhodey's arms and Steve isn't going to make the kid carry Tony's body off the battlefield, so that leaves him to the task.

He moves forward and puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder as he pushes past him. When he kneels down next to Tony's unmoving form, Steve chokes back a sob at the sight of him; seeing it from afar is different. Half of his face and neck is singed, the skin open and blistered. The armor seems to have melted and merged to accommodate the Stones – it's scorched all the way up his arm, the red and gold indistinguishable. 

He can't imagine the agony the man must've been in until the shock set in. This right here, it's more than just laying down on a wire. No, Tony took the wire and the barbs and pulled it apart with bare hands.

Steve shakes his head to clear his thoughts, if only enough to focus on the task at hand. He exchanges a look with Rhodey, seeking permission to do what he’s planning to. The man’s jaw clenches at Steve’s silent question and he swallows roughly to keep the tears from welling up once more, but he approves with a tight nod. Steve turns back to Tony to reach up and gently close his eyes, their lively glow dead and gone.

Steve puts one arm under Tony's and the other under his knees and lifts him up gingerly. His legs feel like they're about to give out then and there, but that's not an option right now, so Steve doesn't let them. 

He looks up and is met with the dozens of heroes that have gathered around as the fight came to an end. When he walks, sensing Rhodey’s and Pepper’s presence close by, the crowd parts around them. 

Steve isn't sure where to he's walking. Away from the destruction, away from the ruins that he's once considered home. 

Most of all, somewhere for Tony to rest.

 

* * *

 

Steve stays for the funeral and for one last goodbye, as they send a floral arrangement out onto the lake. An old arc reactor is perched on top, framed with the words ' _Proof That Tony Stark Has A Heart'_. It's so incredibly fitting, so telling of how Tony spent the last fifteen years of his life, and the way Pepper cradles it within her hands before placing it on the wreath talks of nothing but love and devotion for the man who traded his life for that of humanity.

It's a quiet but beautiful procession. He'll see to it that Natasha gets something like this, too. There might not be a body, but they'll honor her and her sacrifice just as they did Tony's.

It's long after that people start slowly saying their goodbyes, the more distant acquaintances first. Steve eventually turns to go as well, leaving only Tony's closest family and the Parker kid behind, but Pepper walks up to him and holds him back with a hand on his arm.

Her eyes are red, but she's stopped crying sometime ago. Instead, there's the hint of a smile on her face, even if it's crooked and wistful.

"Tony left a recording for us, before–" She cuts herself off and hesitates for a moment. "I think he'd want you to see it as well."

Steve swallows, mostly regarding the knowing look in her eyes, but nods. She'd know, of course. He couldn't imagine Tony keeping the true extent of their relationship from his wife in any case. It's not like it was that much of a secret, what they'd had back then, during the time Pepper and Tony were apart. 

"I'd like to. If you'll have me," he answers and hopes some of the gratitude he feels seeps into his voice.

Pepper leads them back to the house, where the rest of the Stark family is gathered. Steve isn't sure if it's his place to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, so he leaves it be.

Tony's family is one that is, with one exception being his daughter, not related by blood, but by a bond forged by trust and the very people he's left behind. It's a wonderful thing to look at, this strong connection they have, even though it stings in a way that makes Steve long for a simpler time. 

He wonders if the Avengers could've been something like this, or if they were always doomed to drift apart.

Steve enters the house last, pulling the door close as everybody files into the living room, taking their seats. He keeps to the back, near the wall, and stifles a soft gasp when an almost too real hologram of Tony flickers on.

The recording, while it's been made with the sole intention of being shown should he not make it out alive, is a lot less somber than you'd expect a final farewell to be. Then again, it's _Tony_ , and although the gaping hole he leaves in his wake will take time to heal, his smile and easy humor do a lot more for all the people in the room than a forced, sober goodbye ever could.

He ends his speech with an 'I love you three thousand', and although the words and what they imply seem to be mainly directed at his daughter, Steve feels himself tear up at the sincerity in his voice and the softness of his smile. 

Given the opportunity, he wouldn't even have hesitated to trade his own life for this man's.

As it is, there's no way to reverse what has been done. Steve decides not to overstay his welcome and bids his goodbyes to everyone, sharing brief hugs and words of consolation before he exits the house.

He takes one last look out onto the lake, the small waves lapping at the shore tirelessly and the bed of flowers carrying Tony's metaphorical heart over the water, and his tears finally spill.

 

 _I_ will _miss you, Tony,_ he thinks, and leaves the place behind for good.

 

Not long after, they hold a ceremony in Nat's memory, out on a nice field with willow trees swaying in the wind. Steve's never really formed an opinion on what the afterlife might look like (if there is one), but he hopes wherever she is, wherever the both of them are – he hopes they're okay. 

He hopes they know that people will remember them. Not only as sacrifices but as heroes, as people. 

They return to the Avengers' temporary headquarters with heavy hearts. 

Nobody really seems all too excited about the concept of going back in time to put all the Infinity Stones back where they belong, but they’ll need to do it. Soon. Steve dreads it as well, revisiting a time when their past selves were so blissfully unaware of what's to come, but it has to be done. So he steps up.  

"I'll do it," he says. 

The look Bucky shoots him is especially sceptical, and everyone argues over whether or not it's a good idea to let him go alone (it probably isn't) but in the end, Steve puts his foot down. He's going to get it over with, one way or another.

He leaves the next morning, suited up, all the stones secured in a bag and enough Pym Particles in his pockets he could even make a detour back to the 40s if he wanted. (If he wanted. Maybe. _Maybe._ )

Everything goes more or less smoothly. He encounters a slight hiccup here and there, what with the Red Skull on Vormir and the guards on Asgard almost catching him red-handed, but other than that, it's a fairly easy game. The power stone goes back to Morag, the time stone to the Ancient One and the Scepter back to the tower, and then the only one that's left is the Tesseract.

He manages to sneak back into the SHIELD facility at Camp Leigh with surprising ease. It's amazing how easily people will accept you in their space as long as you act like you're supposed to be there.

Luckily, nobody's around when he finds the fancy locker box he's supposed to place the Tesseract back into.

The procedure doesn't differ from how he's handled the other stones, but then, right as he's about to put it in its original spot, something _happens._

The cube, previously only lit in a soft glow, is now beginning to radiate a blueish light so intense Steve reflexively closes his eyes against the burn. He'd drop it if he could, but his fingers stay locked around its edges like iron would stick to a magnet.

He's promptly reminded of the Red Skull, who disappeared from the Valkyrie in the same circumstances Steve finds himself in now, and he can't quite keep the panic at bay. Frankly, he has no desire at all to end up taking the Skull's place on that godforsaken planet.

It must've happened in a matter of seconds, but the moments in which the power of Tesseract takes hold of his body feel like eternity. It's unlike anything ever felt; it's not pain, not even a bodily sensation at all. The energy travelling through his veins feels as if it's turning him inside out, his flesh and bone ripped from his soul and placed back together the wrong way around–

 

* * *

 

Then, it's over. 

It's like a switch being flicked, and suddenly he's back.

There's no discomfort save for a distinct feeling of dizziness that's making his head spin.

He's on the floor, breathing heavily, braced on his forearms. Except, the floor isn't concrete anymore; it's turned soft and slightly damp. Something tickles his nose, and Steve moves his head to the right only to be met with the same sensation again. 

Then, the _smell_ finally registers with his brain. It reminds him a bit of freshly mowed lawn, but there's a deep, earthy undertone that you'd associate with only one type of place: the woods.

His eyelids are still heavy, but he forces them open and immediately zeroes in on the long blades of grass brushing the tip of his nose. Steve sits up, brushing leaves and small twigs off of himself while he does. 

He's stranded somewhere in a thick broadleaf forest. The trees are painted in different colors and in the process of shedding their leaves. Strangely enough, a feeling of familiarity arises within him as he regards his surroundings. Steve frowns, tries to think of a place he knows that fits this description, but comes up empty. He'll have to gather more information before he's able to make an educated guess.

Steve gets up and takes one last look around. The Tesseract is gone; he isn't sure whether to be glad or annoyed about that development, but he'll try to stay positive for now. It's the only thing he _can_ do, really.

He finds himself on a dirt road eventually and continues his walk there. A memory he can't recall yet is prodding the back of his mind, like an invisible fly buzzing around his head without pause. 

With the next turn in the road, his every thought grinds to a halt. 

It makes sense, now, why the place seemed familiar but unrecognizable at the same time – he's only ever driven through the forest, but the destination at the end of the road stuck with him.

The lake house.

At first glance, it appears unchanged. It's been a while since the ceremony they held for Tony, but he remembers that day as if it was just hours ago. Courtesy of his eidetic memory. Or maybe that very event driving home the reality of Tony's death was what made the memory stick to his thoughts like duct tape; it could've been both, for all Steve knows.

Why would the Tesseract take him here? 

Steve planned to check in on Pepper and Morgan again sometime, but not straight away; he doesn't intend to come off as pushy or intrusive. Then again, he has no way of knowing if he was sent back to the present, or even _their_ timeline. He's still not entirely in the picture about the extent of the space stone's powers, and considering what it once did to the Skull, the possibilities seem virtually endless.

Well, almost. Whatever it did, it'll have sent him to this exact location for a reason. A reason that is, Steve can only imagine, linked to Tony Stark in some way or another.

He swallows as he heads toward the front door, apprehension suddenly clogging his throat. When he steps onto the patio and focuses his hearing, he can clearly make out voices from inside. They're muffled, but one is deeper, older, and the other is undoubtedly that of a young girl.

Could it be–?

Steve doesn't know how or why this would be possible, but he does know that he needs a confirmation, knows that he'll have to see it with his own two eyes to believe it.

He knocks, twice in quick succession.

The palms of his hands are damp with sweat. There's footsteps emerging from inside, and Steve reflexively holds his breath until the door opens.

 

 _Tony_.

 

It's Tony. Tony, whose mouth falls open and whose eyes widen comically when he catches his gaze. When their eyes lock, he stumbles backward, pushed by an invisible force. As if he's seen a ghost. Or a dead man walking.

Steve realizes that's precisely what he might be, at least to this very much alive version of Tony Stark. He doesn't get the chance to finish the thought, because Tony has recovered from the initial shock and produces a gauntlet out of nowhere, his palm alight and pointing in Steve's direction.

Tony's eyes go from wide to narrowed in a matter of seconds and his voice is a hiss when he says, "Who the _fuck–_ " 

But then he gives Steve a quick once-over and cuts himself off when the old-school military getup takes him by surprise. Steve uses that opportunity to try and explain himself, or, well– explain that he doesn't have much of an explanation for any of this, either.

"I don't know how, but the Tesseract brought me here," he says, forcing out the words as quickly as possible so Tony won't get any more tempted to repulsor-blast him into the lake.

Tony doesn't let up. If anything, he seems more wary. "So, what? Is this– _Loki_?" 

Steve doesn't know what Thor's brother would get out of this, but he'll admit it's a reasonable concern. 

"No, still Steve Rogers. But probably not the Steve you know," Tony flinches at that, "or the Steve you, uh, knew."

Tony lowers his armored hand, but it's still tilted in Steve's direction in what is unmistakably a warning.

For the first time, Steve gets the chance to look at him. He's not ashamed to admit that he's drinking in the sight like a dying man. It's a feeling beyond compare, seeing the healthy color of Tony's skin and the spark of life in his eyes.

Soon enough, he discovers some differences too. Steve can't help but think that the Tony he knew would be delighted to find out that there's a Tony shorter than him, somewhere in the multiverse. The man's not only shorter, but all in all... _smaller,_ really, for the lack of a better word. While there's still clear outlines of muscle visible through his shirt, the shape of him is different, his edges less angular. 

Softer. He's–softer.

When Steve looks back up and returns Tony's gaze, he tries not to be too obvious about how sheepish he feels, being caught staring like that. But Tony is evidently preoccupied with whatever's currently going through his mind. Beside the suspicion, there's something else in his eyes, something raw and hurting. Steve knows that expression; it's been looking back at him from a mirror for weeks now.

"Assuming you're telling the truth and you _are_ a Steve Rogers, why would–"

There's quick, shuffling footsteps coming up behind Tony. Steve hears them before the other man does, but the moment Tony picks up on the noise, he turns around and walks a few steps down the hallway to catch the little girl in his arms. He throws a look over his shoulder that Steve can't really define and then huddles over her, almost as if to shield her from vision.

Steve isn't sure whether Tony's trying to keep him from looking at her or the other way around, but he'll respect that decision. Considering how Tony has been staring at him, he should probably be grateful to not have been fried by his repulsors five minutes ago.

It's hard not to eavesdrop on a conversation when your hearing is super-human and said conversation is taking place right next to you. Steve pretends not to listen while they exchange hushed words, the girl inquisitive and curious while Tony's grasping at straws trying to find an explanation for why exactly she can't interact with the person in the door.

"Look, honey, if you go to your room while I take care of this, I'll let you have two juice pops later. Will you go to your room if I promise you two juice pops?"

There's a short pause. Steve's fighting to keep the smile off his face. 

"Okay. But I want three," she answers decidedly. Tony chuckles despite himself.

"You think you can handle three?"

"Yeah. _Duh_."

Tony kisses her on the forehead and stands up slowly. "Alright, deal. Three juice pops. I'll come up later, yeah?"

She's gone down the hall and up a flight of stairs in a matter of seconds, and Steve wonders whether children of her size are supposed to be this fast on their feet. Is this normal? Seems like that'd turn the whole house into a potential safety hazard.

He shakes the thought when Tony turns to him, his forehead creased in a contemplative frown before he sighs and hangs his head, gesturing for Steve to come along as he heads down the hall, into the living room.

"Close the door behind you," he says and suddenly sounds tired.

The interior of the house doesn't differ much from the one he already knows, which makes this whole encounter even stranger. Tony, alive and breathing and alone with his daughter in an otherwise empty home. Christ, did something happen to _Pepper_ in this world?

"I need a second opinion from you, JARVIS. Are we dealing with a Steve Rogers here, yes or no?"

Steve's taken aback at the name of the A.I. Tony is addressing, but even more so when he hears the smooth, British voice respond from somewhere up in the ceiling.

"That would appear to be the case, Sir. All my readings suggest that this is a nearly perfect carbon copy of Captain Rogers."

Tony perks up at one particular word.

"Nearly?"

"Pheromone concentration in the air indicates an unusual absence of such, which leads me to believe that this individual is devoid of designation, as we know to be the case with Thor and various other otherworldly beings we have encountered."

Tony tilts his head in Steve's direction just so and breathes in deeply through his nose. It's like he's–scenting. He exhales a quiet "Huh, would you look at that," and Steve realizes that that is precisely what he's been doing.

Just where _the hell_ did he end up?

The utter confusion must show in his face, because Tony quirks a lopsided smile and clasps his hands before walking to a table at the center of the room. He taps the surface and a blank hologram pops up, drenching their surroundings in blue. 

"Boy, this is gonna be awkward. Alright, J, give us human biology 101 here, please. And throw some charts and graphics in. But, uh, those that make the unsightly details easier on the eye, not worse."

Tony turns back around as the empty space starts filling with information. He folds his arms and leans against the table, regarding Steve with an expectant look. Steve isn't sure what he's supposed to say (doesn't even know where he'd start) so he mirrors Tony's stance instead. 

The other man uncrosses his arms and heaves a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in defeat as he does. “Fine, so I’m gonna ask questions and you’ll just answer, how about that?”

Steve nods. “Sounds reasonable.”

“First of all, which year? Please don’t tell me it’s a number with nineteen in front,” Tony says, waving at Steve’s clothing. Right. The disguise. 

He shakes his head. “2023, originally. We, well–we swiped the Infinity Stones from different points in time, and I was supposed to put them back where they belonged. Including the Tesseract, which we took from a SHIELD facility in the 70s. But you know how that turned out.”

Steve’s almost relieved when Tony nods in understanding. If none of this fazes him, their timelines might not be all that different after all. 

“So, the Stones. You needed them. To fight Thanos, right?” A muscle in Tony’s jaw ticks when he mentions the Titan’s name. Steve shares that sentiment. 

He tilts his head in response to Tony’s question. “Not directly. We tracked him down a few weeks after the Decimation and Thor chopped his head off. Five years later, we found a way to go back in time, collect the Stones and reverse the Snap,” he says and pauses for a moment. “Wait, it was different here?”

“If by ‘found a way’ you mean Scott Lang found _you_ , then no. That was a trick question,” Tony answers, his lips twisting into something of a faltering smile. He turns to the hologram floating behind him, rearranging some segments and discarding others with a flick of his wrist. 

“And everything– went smoothly? No hitch in your grand scheme?”

Steve draws in a shaking breath. If the deaths of two of the most valued people in his life could be considered a ‘hitch’, well. “Nat– Natasha didn’t come back from Vormir. You know how the Soul Stone–? You do. Clint– they fought, and she…won. Not in the long run. But she made the sacrifice.”

There’s a distinct tremble in his voice. Tony can tell, if the way he’s looking at him is any indication. He’s still facing toward the hologram, but his head is turned to the side just so and he’s observing Steve from the corner of his eye. “It was, um. It was the other way around, here. Last time I checked, Nat was with Laura and the kids. Survivor’s guilt,” he says quietly, blinking a few times before he turns away again. 

“Thanos, the one from the past, he figured out what we were doing. Came back, tried to take the Stones.” Steve decides to get it over with quickly. Rip off the band-aid and it’ll hurt less. Figures. “Tony– he did it. We could've figured something out, I know it could've gone differently, but he just. It was down to him and Thanos, and he took the Stones and–”

Steve snaps his fingers. The sound makes Tony flinch. The _other_ Tony _,_ he reminds himself. The Tony of another universe in which he’s now stranded for an undetermined amount of time. (Steve isn’t ready to commit to the thought that that timespan might expand to ‘forever’ at some point.)

Other Tony whips around abruptly, disbelief in his widened eyes. “ _Me?_  Tony as in Tony Stark? How would that... Doesn’t he have Extremis?”

Steve lifts an eyebrow in question but shakes his head slowly. He remembers Tony destroying the organisation (AIM?) that brought Extremis into being (without calling for the Avengers’ help, because despite everything, the guy was almost as much of a stubborn bastard as he is) but as far as Steve knows, he never did experiment with the stuff other than getting it out of Pepper’s system.

“Oh,” Tony says, deflating. “So he didn’t– Sorry.”

“Yeah.” Steve looks at the floor. It’s a nice, dark hardwood. 

When he’s recollected himself enough to make his eyes stop burning, he looks back up. Tony is watching him, his expression pondering, but his gaze shifts off to the side once Steve returns it. 

“Did you– did _he_ have, um.” Tony hesitates. “A kid?”

Steve smiles tightly. The thought is bittersweet. He wonders if this Tony’s daughter is a Morgan too; wonders if she’ll also grow up with a loved one missing. He doesn’t dare ask. “He did. He does. After he came back from space, he and Pepper–”

At Tony’s incredulous eyebrow-raise, Steve trails off. The man laughs quietly to himself, rubbing his neck. “Pepper, huh? Good to know that worked out for one of us, I guess,” he says, the words directed more at himself than at Steve.

Steve feels like he’s missing a puzzle piece. This Tony isn’t with Pepper, so who–

“Do I really need to spell it out for you?” Tony asks suddenly, his tone exasperated but his eyes tired. 

No answer seems to be answer enough for him, because he takes on a more defensive stance, crossing his arms over his chest as he steps a few feet away from the table and the holograms.

“You had that falling out too, right? Back in–2016? The Accords? Siberia?"

The memory is painful, but it's long faded into a dull ache in his chest instead of the stabbing pain he's once felt. Regret and guilt may still be gnawing at him (and he deserves it, he _does_ ) but he realizes the feelings are useless and trivial at this point. Tony forgave him. Tony is gone. 

Steve nods stiffly, and he continues.

"It took us some time, or, well. It took _me_ some time and some screaming fits, but me and Steve made up. After I, like you already mentioned, returned from the deathtrap that is the boundless void of space,” Tony explains carefully. He places his chin in his hand and eyes Steve as if he’s trying to gauge his reaction. 

“We did that. And then we had a kid, because surprise, being old and temporarily on the brink of death doesn't guarantee your body’s going to play nice and you’ll just conveniently go into menopause, Stark.”

Steve blinks. He knows he _heard_ right, because he always does. Or maybe the Tesseract screwed with his hearing while sending him through dimensions, but that seems unlikely. Because Tony’s undoubtedly saying what Steve’s hearing him say. There’s be some grave differences in how humans work in this world, he’s known and expected that to be the case since Tony had JARVIS compile all that information, but he’s not expected – this. 

Steve opens his mouth, but Tony holds up a hand and his jaw snaps close again. “I get you don’t get it. It’s difficult to– Look, uh, there’s a lot of science involved JARVIS is gonna get into later, so just– take my word for it right now.”

When he nods slowly, Tony continues, “So, we had Maria. We had all of that, for five years. And, well, you know what happened after.” Tony swallows audibly; his eyes have turned glassy, and they’re swimming with tears when he turns toward the blue light of the holograms.

Steve knows before he says it.

“My Steve did what the Tony in your universe did.”

He suspected something like this, being on the receiving end of Tony's rather violent reaction after he'd opened the door, but having his suspicions confirmed is a whole lot worse. Especially now that he knows what a strong connection this Tony shared with his Steve.

Steve always yearned for it, for something like this, but he doubts he could've coped with losing Tony if they had been as close as these two were. He barely does as it is.

"I'm sorry," he says. For the first time, he doesn’t just think it.

Tony nods, but the words seem to go right past him. He wipes the tears away quickly, hastily, as if they're a minor annoyance. 

"You, um. You get it, right? That's why I can't," Tony sniffs and fiddles with his sleeves, "I can't let Maria see you. And you can't stay here, no offense. It would just– she'd understand, I think, but she shouldn't have to, not after going through all of this."

Something settles cold and heavy in his gut at Tony's words, but he tries to repress the feeling. Tony is only being reasonable; he shouldn't put his daughter through this and in any case, it's not like he owes Steve anything. Steve's a surprise visitor from another dimension, nothing Tony ever wanted or even asked for. 

He thinks he's doing a pretty good job at hiding the uncalled-for hurt in his voice when he answers, "No, I do. I understand, Tony. It's only right to put your daughter first. Probably wouldn't be a good call to stay here anyway, after… everything."

No matter how hard he's trying to focus on anything in the room _but_ Tony, he always winds up looking at the man. Somehow, Steve can't even blame himself. His presence alone is magnetic. (Always has been, no matter the universe or the point in time.)

Tony's intently staring at the wall next to him. He's biting his lip when he looks back at Steve, and shoves his hands down the front pockets of his pants. (Hands. It's always Tony's hands that'll betray his nerves first, so he makes sure he won't get tempted.) His gaze drops down to his feet again. Clearly there's something he wants to get off his chest; all the signs are there.

Steve thinks of something encouraging to say and fails. The thing is, pushing Tony the right way usually makes for great results, but push just a little too hard or choose the wrong words and he'll go the exact opposite direction.

He's lucky, this time. Because Tony doesn't need to be nudged in any one direction at all. He blurts, "Your Tony, was he– were you…? Was it always strictly platonic or–"

Steve's heart clenches painfully in his chest. _Your_ Tony. God, how he wished for that. It was more than he ever deserved, probably, but he'd wished for it. To call Tony his. _His._

He wanted more and then lost everything, crushed the one chance he might've had in his own two hands. Crushed Tony's trust the same way he did the arc reactor under his shield. It's tragically, hilariously poetic.

"I loved him," he says, with a clarity so sudden it takes him by surprise.

He never spoke the words out loud. They sound right but leave a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. He figures this is how missed chances must taste. Tangy but stale. Rainwater.

Only when Tony breaks their eye-contact does Steve realize they've been looking at one another throughout his confession. It's strange. Here he is, admitting his love for a Tony who's gone to another version of him, a Tony who is different but the same; a Tony who is alone just like he is, but also not. 

Steve wonders if there is a thing called destiny, and if this is how it feels.

"Oh," Tony says, for the second time. "That sucks."

It did, at times. But the good moments they shared, the memories Steve has of the time they had together – even now, with all of them tainted and bittersweet, he wouldn't trade them for the world. 

Steve can't help but smile at Tony's comment. Of course this is what he'd say. 

Maybe his expression is a little too fond, because Tony angles himself away from Steve just so and visibly closes off after that, shaking his head as if to get rid of whatever their interaction might have triggered within him. 

"Sorry. Just– you asked," Steve adds, going for damage control.

Tony nods. Twice. A few times. His head is just bobbing up and down for a bit, like those little figurines people put on their dashboards. Then he stops and attempts a reassuring smile, but it's strained and doesn't reach his eyes. 

"I know," he answers. "Let's leave it at that."

He heads over to the joined kitchen, taking two glasses out of an overhead cabinet. Something soft and yearning blooms within Steve as he watches him get up on his tiptoes to reach them, but looks away when he catches himself in the act.

It isn't his place. It _isn't._

Hell, this isn't even his universe. He needs to stop.

"You want, uh, water? OJ? Multivitamin? Cherry? Any fruit juice at all, really, you name it. Or– something alcoholic? I don't think I– There's beer, if you want. You _do_ want something to drink, right?" 

There, another trademarked Tony Stark trait. Rambling when antsy. The lines are very much blurring. Steve shouldn't have such a hard time reminding himself of the fact that that doesn't change anything about who they are (and, more importantly, aren't) to each other, but– There's no 'but'. He shouldn't.

He responds to get Tony out of his misery. "Yes, thank you. I could do with some OJ."

Tony fills both glasses with juice and hands one to Steve. Then he seems to think of something, because his face lights up with realization and he makes a beeline for the freezer, putting his own glass down on the table. He pulls out three differently colored popsicles in plastic wrapping and points to the door.

“I’m just gonna–”

Steve nods in understanding and he leaves the sentence unfinished, instead turning to exit the room. The wooden steps creak under his weight as he makes his way up the stairs, and then it’s silent. 

He figures Tony will take some time with his daughter, so he walks up to the holograms still floating there and studies the information given for some time. 

Most of it is easy to comprehend. Some of the very scientific segments that talk about additional chromosomes and pheromone communication go over his head somewhat, but he definitely gets the basics. There’s some parts that describe certain reproductive organs and their functions in great detail and Steve fights off the blush that threatens to creep up his neck. He’d probably die of mortification if Tony decided to return and find him turning pink because he got an explicit lecture on the birds and the bees.

“Is there anything you would like me to clarify or elaborate on, Captain Rogers?”

JARVIS’ voice emerges from its speakers without any prior warning; Steve only winces a little.

“Uh, no, I think I’m alright, JARVIS. This is very insightful. Thank you,” he answers, and takes another sip from his juice. Wants to, anyway, but the glass is already empty. Huh. That was quick.

“Very well,” the A.I. responds.

Steve taps his fingertips against the empty glass for a moment, frowns in thought. He looks back up to address the voice in the ceiling; can’t help it. Really, he never could. It doesn’t matter whether JARVIS can hear and will answer him no matter if he’s facing the sensors – it’s just about being polite. (Needless to say, Tony had the time of his life making fun of him for that sentiment whenever possible.)

“Tony is omega, right? That’s– He did have the baby. Like it’s described here?”

“Indeed. Young Miss Stark was delivered by c-section, however.”

He nods. It’s not like he knows much about childbirth, especially in this world that continues to defy all limitations he’s ever thought the human body had, but he supposes it would make sense, for someone of Tony’s age and medical record. Or, well– Steve has no way of knowing if that applies to this Tony too, but he’d wager it does, seeing as the events in both their timelines are largely similar.

"I hear JARVIS is already spilling all my secrets," Tony says, successfully derailing Steve's train of thought.

He's standing in the door, one half-eaten popsicle in hand. Steve has no idea when he got there.

Tony nibbles at the juice pop as he walks over. With a grimace, he swallows and then holds the green-colored ice at an arm's length, looking as if the thing personally insulted him. "Ugh, the green ones are the worst. Things you do for family. I knew she wouldn't eat them all, but a promise is a promise," Tony concludes.

Steve chuckles, but the noise gets stuck in his throat when Tony finally turns to him, his expression devoid of humor. "I can't convince her to stay in her room forever. She already knows something's up,” he says, scratching the back of his head.

“So, here's the deal: One night. We have a guest room you can use. I'm calling Fury today and he'll send someone to pick you up tomorrow. Hopefully. Nah, he's definitely going to jump at the opportunity when he hears about this."

Steve can't quite suppress the deep, resigned sigh that escapes him. He doesn't mean to guilt-trip Tony into hosting him, absolutely not, but– God. Hasn't he woken up in a strange, new world once already? Isn't one time _enough?_

The prospect of going back to SHIELD and practically reliving the past eight years feels like he's stuck in a cruelly ironic catch-22. It's almost a deja-vu, save for the feeling of existential horror that overcomes him when he thinks about repeating the experience of being thrown into a new-old world all over _again._

He's done it before, pretending to be alright doing mission after mission until he couldn't anymore. Until the walls came crumbling down around him and not even channelling his frustration into the destruction of gym gear late in the night could keep the ~~memories~~ nightmares away. Except now– now there's nobody left. Not if Tony rejects him entirely, not if this world's Avengers don't feel comfortable welcoming a different version of _their_ Steve Rogers into their team. 

The realization hits him like a punch in the gut and takes his breath away in the worst way possible.

He can't do this. He can't do this again. 

"You can't do what?" Tony asks out of the blue. 

Steve flinches at his words. He needs to shut up and get it together _._ Tony's gone through enough himself, there's no need to burden the man with emotional baggage that's not even his own.

When he looks at Tony, there must be something in his eyes, because Tony clenches his jaw and avoids his gaze, looks at the floor. His dark lashes brush his cheeks as he looks down. God, he's pretty. (Objectively speaking. Epitome of objectivity, right here.)

He meets Steve's eyes again and there's guilt in the twisted line of his lips. Which is precisely what Steve sought to avoid, but he's never been as good at camouflaging his emotions as Tony's known to be. 

"I'm sorry this happened to you, alright? Parallel universes fucking suck. If there's a way for you to get back, we'll find it. But I can't–I can't have you here. You–"

Tony cuts himself off. There's a dent in his cheek where he's biting the inside of it. 

"You're too much like him."

He anticipated as much. They are (or, were?) the same person in the truest sense of the word, after all. Steve’s own emotions are all over the place; he can’t imagine what it must be like for Tony, being confronted with the spitting image of his husband and father of his child, knowing it’s not the same man he remembers loving.

Steve looks at the shadows and deepening lines in Tony’s face and knows there’s no real choice to be made here. This situation might not be fair to either of them, but no sensible person would try to force themselves on someone who’s not even had proper time to grieve yet.

“I’d imagine. It’s alright, Tony. I’m just– it’s a little much, is all,” he says eventually. Understatement of the century, but that’s something he’ll keep to himself. “Call Fury. Pretty sure he’s gonna want to see this for himself.”

Tony deflates in something akin to relief when Steve doesn’t object to his decision. Steve pretends it doesn’t sting. (Because it shouldn’t. Because Tony has every right to do what he’s doing.)

“Okay,” Tony breathes through a sigh. “Should I show you to your room? It’s a little cramped, but it should do for the night.”

Steve nods and motions for Tony to lead the way. He seems glad not to be forced to continue their conversation any longer, which Steve can’t really blame him for. This isn’t how anyone would want to spend their day off. 

Tony guides him up the stairs and to a room on the righthand side of the upper floor. It has a roof slope that makes the space look smaller than it is; there’s a single bed in one corner and a row of cupboards and bookshelves on the opposite wall. A skylight drenches the room in soft daylight, highlighting the dust particles floating in the air.

“Like I said, it’s not much, but make yourself at home,” Tony says, walking over to the bed to swipe his palm over the surface of the nightstand. More dust swirls through the room as he does, testifying just how scarcely this part of the house receives guests. 

Tony grimaces a little and wipes his hands. “It’s only for a night,” he adds, seemingly deeming the reminder necessary when faced with the state of the room. In light of everything that happened since the Tesseract brought him to this place, Steve can’t say he minds a few dusty pieces of furniture all that much.

“It’s fine, Tony,” Steve reassures him. He wouldn’t find a reason to complain in any case when Tony could just as well have run him off his property the moment he caught sight of him.

Tony smiles in response, the smallest strain around the curve of his lips, and pushes past Steve to remain standing in the door frame for a moment before reaching for the handle. 

"I'll go and see if I can get a hold of Fury," he announces, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

Steve pauses at the sight, then huffs an almost unintelligible sound of surprise when he realizes what feels strange about that particular movement. He's positive he's never seen the Tony he knew do anything like this. There's something endearing about it. Which Steve doesn't think about; Steve thinks about Tony's words. Because Tony's speaking. Right now, his mouth is moving, and Steve should be paying attention–

"Call if you need anything. Or– on second thought, maybe don't," he says, rubbing his forehead as it creases with a frown. "I'll get you some bedding and, uh, clothes. Later."

Steve resists sheepishly clearing his throat and thanks Tony instead. Right. Because he's grateful for Tony's hospitality, and the fact that Tony puts up with him despite his likeness being a constant reminder of his dead husband. He isn't sure whether Tony has noticed his lingering glances, but if he did, he's been very generous in letting the uncalled-for behavior slide. 

"Don't mention it," Tony says, disappearing on the other side of the door as he pulls it close gently.

 

With a soft click, the door falls shut, and Steve finds himself alone.

 


	2. the shards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess what: i'm not dead! turns out what i needed to get my ass in gear is a pandemic and government-decreed self-isolation. fun. 
> 
> for those of you still with me, thank you for your patience. it means a lot, and i hope this (extra long) chapter meets your expectations.
> 
> as always, all mistakes are mine. enjoy the read!

 

Tony doesn’t return, and the hours stretch into eternity in the enclosed space of the small room.

It carries a strange energy, something old and deep and laden with tranquility that's comforting. There's only the long, wooden bookshelves, the bed that's too narrow for his large frame and creaks when he sits, and the dust floating lazily through the air solely made visible by the light seeping in through the window above – and Steve. 

The longer he looks, the easier it gets to uncover the two most obvious and confusing truths about this room. It's old and out of place. The floorboards aren't as spotless and shiny as the ones downstairs and the tapestry is even peeling off in one corner. Its combination of furniture is messy, the colors don't match, and none of it looks like it really belongs here. Funny, how Steve fits right into both those categories.

With little else to do, Steve blindly grabs a book off one of the shelves and settles into the armchair next to them. He discovers that he picked a 101 on electrical engineering; he can’t make sense of the majority of passages he skims through (doesn't really make an effort to), so his thoughts drift off soon enough. 

Now that he’s got the time and space needed to look at his situation from a more fact-bound perspective, a few positives come to light. He could do without going back to SHIELD, of course, but if getting poked and prodded for a while and having a highly confidential heart to heart with Fury to prove the legitimacy of his identity will ultimately help convince them to get him back where he’s come from, that’s something he’s willing to take upon himself.

Of course, retrieving the Tesseract from the past and hoping it’ll take him back just like that is nothing more than a shot in the dark, but Steve for one prefers taking that shot over sitting idle and accepting his being stuck here with a shrug of indifference. That’s not who he is, was, or ever will be. Standing on the sidelines isn’t something he’s able or willing to do.

Thinking about possible outcomes naturally also comes with another, rather unpleasant realization: if the Tesseract doesn’t magically return him to the world it’s taken him from on its own, he’s stranded here for good. Tony probably wouldn’t hesitate to tamper with the thing, but Steve has a feeling the risk wouldn’t be worth it. There might not be an army of Chitauri anymore, but he very much wants to avoid any repetition of that time SHIELD tinkered with the Stone back in 2012 and unleashed Loki on an unsuspecting New York. They have better understanding of it now and _maybe_ Thanos was the big bad, but still. Who knows what else is out there? 

In the end, his train of thought does a 360, because he’s known all of this from the start: chances of undoing what’s been done are slim, Tony’s going to (rightfully) kick him out soon, he’ll be back in SHIELD’s roster whether he likes it or not, and by now, Bucky and Sam have most likely begun to entertain the idea that he’s apparently bailed on them once and for all.

And, well, he’ll admit he’s been playing with the thought; going back, leaving everything behind to live the simple life like Tony once told him to. It would’ve been easy. He was still on the fence about the issue when the Tesseract took the decision out of his hands. Steve doesn’t want to get hung up on the fateful nature of it all, but he can’t quite believe all of this to be sheer dumb (bad) luck.

Maybe, he needs it to mean something. Like his going into the ice and waking up seventy years later needed to mean something. Like Tony's death needed to mean something.

How can’t it, when this small, tired, grieving Tony looks just as heartbroken as he's been feeling during the worst of times?

How could this horrible, _incredible_ thing possibly occur by happenstance? It doesn’t make sense. Is it a punishment? Is it a lesson? 

A vivid image of the Red Skull’s ghostly form flashes in front of his eyes, and Steve shakes his head quietly to himself. No. _That_ was a lesson. This is something else. Maybe it’s the universe’s good intentions gone bad; maybe there was an attempt to make something right, to bring two lost souls together through a glitch in the matrix. 

In his dreams, maybe. If there’s a higher deity above them all, it isn’t going to care about what happens to one of the countless Steve Rogerses and Tony Starks in all the worlds it watches over.

Steve forces the thought out of his head. He can very well keep pondering the ‘why’ of it all, but all that’s going to do at the end of the day is leave him with ideological questions there are no real answers to. Not in this case there aren't, anyway.

He needs to focus on the questions he can answer, starting tomorrow. If this Nick Fury is anything like the one Steve is familiar with, it’ll take some persuading to get the man on his side. Once he’s done that, he can start thinking about how to get the Tesseract and what to do should his one possible ticket home prove useless. 

Steve goes back to reading. Hours upon hours pass in which Tony doesn’t return and Steve doesn’t leave the room in fear of being discovered by the one other person in the house who’s not supposed to catch sight of him. Sometimes, there are noises from the other side of the door, but he does his best to ignore them and stifle the curiosity brought about by boredom. 

He swaps the engineering book for a corny novel about a woman who speaks to spirits, and then replaces that with a thorough guide to garden maintenance when the story gets all too outlandish.

The light streaming in through the window takes on a golden hue in time and announces the day’s impending end by bathing the room in its warm colors. There’s no clock around and Steve hasn’t got a watch on him, so it’s hard to gauge how much time has really passed. He’s used to his circadian clock being dead on time just about always, but this unprompted weekend getaway through dimensions left his head spinning in more ways than one.

Long before nightfall comes, _Chapter 5: How to Hand-Weed Your Garden the Right Way_ has lulled him to sleep halfway through.

 

* * *

 

Steve wakes with a jolt.

His heart is racing with the thump of a racehorse’s gallop and there’s sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat. He doesn’t remember dreaming, but from the way his body behaves, he's most likely had a nightmare. One that didn’t stick to his conscious, thankfully. He doesn't want to know what his brain is capable of conjuring as a result of the past month alone.

Feeling clammy, he pushes the blanket off of himself, draping it over the armrest of the chair. Then, he pauses. Blanket. Which blanket?

Steve rubs the woolen material between his fingers, looking up only to spot a small pile of clothing on the newly made bed. Tony made good on his promise.

His eyes don’t have problems adjusting to the lighting conditions, so it takes him a moment to put a finger on what feels different about the room when he stands and walks to the bed. 

It's dark out.

He inspects the clothing, two button-ups and jeans that appear to be his exact size, swallowing around the lump in his throat when it becomes clear that this was part of other Steve’s wardrobe. Tony must’ve never gotten rid of it in the first place. 

He can’t help but feel wrong for it, slipping into this man’s clothes that are like a second skin on him, like taking his place could be just that easy. There’s certainly no profound message attached to this gesture, especially since Tony’s provided him with the clothes without making a big deal out of it, but the thought still leaves a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. 

Despite himself, Steve eventually does shed his sweat-stained uniform to replace it with the fresh clothes. He can smell himself on the old ones and can’t imagine that to be pleasant for anyone with a nose good enough to pick up on pheromones, so he figures Tony would rather he wear the things than stink up the place.

When he’s done changing, he looks around the room, a little lost. He’s wide awake now and his throat is parched, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as he swallows. Sleep isn’t going to be an option in the next few hours and he could do with a drink and a quick detour to the toilet.

Still undecided, Steve puts his ear against the surface of the door, listening intently for a few beats. The house is quiet. He must’ve been asleep longer than he thought. When he’s convinced nobody’s up anymore, he straightens and, after a single moment’s hesitation, opens the door.

His stomach rumbles in protest as he makes his way down the painfully noisy stairs, reminding him just how long ago his last meal has been. His metabolism calls for a lot more than just three meals a day, and he hasn’t even gotten those in the last twenty-four hours. Steve tries to ignore the pangs in his empty stomach. He can hardly plunder Tony’s fridge, and it’s not like he hasn’t had to go without eating for much longer periods of time in the past. 

Steve arrives at the ground floor when he sees it in the corner of his eye. There’s a flurry of movement on top of the stairs, but the moment he whips around to inspect it further, everything appears unchanged. 

He frowns, freezing where he’s standing and reflexively bringing his hands up in defense. Sure, he can do well enough without it, but _Christ_ does he miss his shield. Steve scans his surroundings and listens for sounds until he’s convinced himself whatever he saw must’ve been his imagination playing a trick on him. God knows it's no wonder he's out of it with everything that happened.

When he approaches the kitchen, the feeling of being watched doesn’t vanish; if anything, it grows into something even stronger, like eyes boring into his back. And yet, no matter how many times he checks, he can’t make out what triggered this sudden paranoia. Steve decides to get the sole reason for his coming down here over with and grabs a glass for himself. He fills it with water from the faucet and empties its contents in quick succession, swallowing the cold liquid down greedily.

He repeats this process a second time before the telltale creak of the stairs alerts him to someone’s presence. The noise is almost inaudible, the person’s steps perfectly calculated – anyone else surely would’ve missed it. 

Turns out his gut was right after all.

“Who are you?” a small voice asks just as he turns around frantically, ready to deal with the suspected intruder in his wake.

Steve drops the glass, his fingers spasming and letting loose like his muscles have forgotten how to function in those two seconds it takes him to realize who's disrupted his nightly kitchen raid. The sound accompanying its untimely demise when it shatters on the floor is loud in the otherwise deadly silent room.

Out of the two of them, there’s only one intruder – and it most definitely isn’t the dark-haired girl with the same mistrustful frown on her young face he’s seen on Tony just hours before.

Her tiny frame is standing in the door that connects kitchen and living room, barely filling out the space, eyes narrowed in a scowl. Everything about her demeanor speaks of Tony’s influence, but if he allows himself to look more closely, there are some typical Rogers traits, too. (The way she lifts her chin an inch in response to his stare, her stance ramrod straight as she meets him head on, arms crossed over her chest in a no-nonsense attitude and  inexorable determination that tells him she'll plant herself like a tree right here until she gets the answers she demands.)

When Steve’s glance shifts and he avoids her gaze, she drops her arms, uncertainty and something else much more vulnerable blossoming in her changing features as she eyes him through the dark shadows the moonlight throws in the room.

He watches her do the same thing Tony did to scent him – she tilts her head toward him and sniffs, confusion apparent as her brows furrow in response to the results she gets. 

Steve swallows hard. What’s he supposed to say? What’s he supposed to do? He doesn't have any experience with children in general, so how in the world can he be expected to know what to do about this little girl whose eyes are nothing short of a facsimile of his own?

“It’s all pretty complicated,” he says hesitantly, voice gentle in a way someone would speak to a spooked horse and shoulders hunched to appear as non-threatening as possible. “And I don’t really understand it myself. But I’m not here to hurt you, or Tony– your dad. I just need to get back home.”

If anything, Maria looks more sceptical than before. In his defense, nobody ever tells you there might come a day when you’re going to have to explain the concept of a multiverse to a five-year-old, even if aforementioned child may very possibly be brighter than most her age.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she states, unimpressed by his awkward attempts at explanation.

She sure is Tony's kid, no doubt.

"Okay, true. I'm Steve, but I think you know that already," he says, voice harder in a way he hopes will seem more genuine. He's getting the feeling this girl can smell bullshit five miles against the wind and will notice any and all sugarcoating he might try to attempt.

He pauses, unsure of how to continue. She takes his silence as a deliberate pause, nodding hesitantly in response to his words. 

"How I got here was more of an accident. I'm from another, uh, place. A world, like yours. It sounds crazy even to my own ears, believe me. Where I'm from– most things are the same, but there's a few key differences. I think you might've noticed that, too."

Maria nods her head as she listens and looks off to the side, uncharacteristically unperturbed for someone who's just found out alternate realities exist. This probably _does_ go a little over her head still, Stark genes or no. Steve doesn't know how anyone could have a conversation like this in a way that'd make a kindergartener understand.

She doesn't seem to intend to get hung up on the technicalities in any case, because her main concern is of an entirely different nature, "I heard you talk, and daddy said you'll have to leave again. I know he's sad. I don't understand why he wants you to go."

Steve is so very painfully aware of how not qualified he is to have this conversation.

"Well, your dad has–" 

His words fade into quiet apprehension as muffled sounds and talking from upstairs cause both him and his small but fierce interrogator to direct their attention toward the source of noise. Moments later, the groaning stairs announce Tony’s imminent arrival, his quick, shuffling steps atop the wood unmistakable in their nature. 

“A _situation?_ ” Tony mutters a string of profanities under his breath and considering the way Maria's eyes widen, Steve is pretty sure he's not the only one who's heard them. Which is strange, because the sound is faint even in _his_ ears, and that should mean– "What the fuck's that supposed to mean, JARVIS? I swear, one of these days I will sit down and hand-pick all those lines of code even _remotely_ associated with you being–"

The words die in his throat when he steps through the doorway to the kitchen, swaying a little as his legs cease their movement on the spot and he comes to an abrupt halt. 

In the center of the room, the ceiling light turns on automatically without missing a beat and Steve blinks against the sudden brightness for a moment before turning his focus back on Tony who's still there, taking in the scene in silence. His hair is unkempt, strands pointing in every which direction and some of them curling at the base of his neck. The loose sweatpants and shirt suggest he's already been in bed when his A.I. alerted him to the _situation_ downstairs, locking him out of dreamland to instead have him deal with Steve, unwanted houseguest who couldn't keep from fucking up that one task he's been given.

With Tony added to the equation, they wind up in a triangle-like formation, facing one another in some sort of parody of a mexican standoff where instead of guns it’s the impending emotional fallout that poses the central problem.

For a moment, there's a flicker of something angry in Tony's eyes that makes Steve almost want to slink away at the sight of his stare. Yet it's gone almost as quick as it appeared, leaving only exhaustion that paves the way for a long-suffering sigh which Tony emits as he presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets.

Steve remains standing by the sink awkwardly, risking a glance at Tony's daughter who seems just equally as delighted by the situation as her father. When Tony, having apparently collected himself enough to deal with him, looks up again, he meets Steve with an exasperated glare that hits the exact nuance of _'you had_ one _job'_ so effortlessly Steve doesn't think there's any chance he can possibly get on the man's good side ever again.

Surprisingly, the first thing he says isn't directed at Steve. Instead, he turns to Maria, hands braced against his hips, and asks, "What are you doing up anyway, young lady?"

The stern look she gets must be one she's familiar with and has grown to respect, because the girl's stance loses some of its confidence in wake of the emotion Tony's disapproving frown communicates. She doesn't avoid looking at him, but shrugs and says, "I wanted to know what was going on. You think I don't notice when you're like this, but I do."

Tony's frown deepens. "When I'm 'like this'?"

Maria looks away. "When you're sad. About papa. You get really weird, and you think I don't know," she says, and the way her voice fades into a whisper at the end hurts something in his core. 

It would make sense that Tony felt such a need to keep her from having to process this too, but it seems like his protectiveness backfired in ways he hadn't expected. It's true what they say about good intentions.

Tony twitches in a way that's almost a flinch but isn't. His eyes dart in Steve's direction for a moment, a nervous flicker, like he needs to know whether Steve's heard the words too. It's just like him to check for a reaction to his own vulnerability, like Steve doesn't already know what's clearly and understandably troubling him. Like it's his responsibility to function like a machine and shield his daughter from any and all emotions that aren't hers.

"I don't–" Tony starts, but snaps his jaw close when he doesn't find the words he's about to say to be the right ones. "I'm not doing this because I want to shut you out, sweetie. I just think you shouldn't have to worry so much about me being sad, hm?"

Maria narrows her eyes but opts to bite her lip, like she’s trying to hold in whatever she might’ve blurted out before. Tony wordlessly urges her to go on. 

“Why are you allowed to worry and I’m not? That isn’t fair,” she says, sounding genuinely upset. 

Steve watches Tony’s lips twitch with the knee-jerk urge to object, to maybe give a reply along the lines of _‘Because I’m the adult’_ or _‘Because I’m the parent and you’re my child’,_ but he resists the temptation. Instead, he hangs his head in quiet defeat and looks up at his daughter with fondness in his gaze. 

“No, it’s not,” Tony admits. “How about we get you back to bed and talk about this?” 

When the brunet opens his arms, Maria comes running in an instant, throwing herself into the embrace. Tony secures her in his grip and squeezes just a little tighter, possibly exhaling in relief or preparation for what is yet to come. He lets Steve know that he’s going to be down in a minute with a fleeting gesture, mouthing ‘I’ll be right back’ so that Steve, unwanted houseguest, won’t attempt to flee the perimeter in the meantime.

Steve spends some time searching for a dustpan and then cleans up the mess of broken glass on the floor he caused in his surprise. After, he makes himself comfortable in the living room while he waits and anxiously watches the clock as five, ten, fifteen minutes tick by.

He clasps and unclasps his hands in his lap, watching his fingers move. The skin is spotless, impeccable. It bothers him. No scars, no marks, no calluses. Nothing to show for, nothing left but the memory of war and bloodshed. 

He's begun to dislike his body's infallible ability of self-healing. Who would've guessed Erskine could do his job _too_ well?

After seventeen minutes, noises from the hallway announce Tony’s return, and after eighteen, the other man joins him, sitting down on the other end of the couch. 

He exhales a long breath and supports his elbows on his knees, utterly drained.

"Talk about a conversation I wasn't even remotely ready to have."

Steve grimaces in sympathy, unsure of whether he should ask how it went. Probably not, though, considering Tony's subtle but very telling reaction from before when he feared Steve might have caught a glimpse of him behind the façade. They aren’t there yet.

After a minute of uncomfortable silence hovering between them, Steve decides to end it and broach a different topic. He's been meaning to ask, anyway.

"So," Steve says, clearing his throat to break the silence. "What's Fury thinking about all this?"

Steve purposely keeps his eyes down and fixated on his own hands, but he can't help but notice Tony shifting minimally, his stance infused with a sudden tension as he does.

"Nothing, actually. I didn't– He doesn't know. Yet."

Tony's voice is quiet, subdued, like he's hoping Steve won't be able to pick up his words nor ask him to repeat them. 

Steve's heard, though. Clear as day. And he's trying not to think about all the possible reasons why Tony would do such a thing when he seemed so adamant about wanting him out of the house as soon as possible. _None of that,_ he reprimands himself, clenching his jaw and crushing the glimmer of hope Tony's words have ignited in his chest underneath the metaphorical heel of his boot before he gets any stupid ideas.  

Nothing has changed. 

Or has it?

Tony sighs and fists a hand in the hair at the back of his skull. Steve isn't sure if it's his turn to speak; in any case, he wouldn't know how to react, and there seems to be something more on Tony's chest.

"I'm going to regret this, but here goes," he mutters, mostly to himself. When he looks up, he doesn't shy away from Steve's gaze. "My daughter is painfully stubborn when she wants to be. Courtesy of Steve, I'd say, but I can acknowledge my lack of sainthood when I want to."

Tony huffs a low _tsk_ and continues, "For a reason unbeknownst to me, she tells me that we can't kick you out. I don't know if she's arguing your case because you're, well, _him,_ or because she really thinks it's not fair to make you leave."

He shrugs. "Anyway. I don't have any desire to play the bad guy here and it's not like we don't have the space, so you can stay for now. We're still gonna check in with Fury and see if we can do anything about your situation, but yeah. For what it's worth, you won't be going back to SHIELD, long as you don't want to."

Steve blanks. He's made peace with the way things stood in the last few hours and yet here Tony is, telling him he doesn't have to. All because this five-year-old girl inherited every bit of her parents' perseverance and this Tony too has, despite his initial display of sternness, a very soft spot for his child's every want. The _thank you, Tony,_ gets stuck in his throat regardless; Tony isn't the one who wants him here, and by extension, he probably doesn't want his thanks either.

"Your daughter is something else, huh?" he hears himself say. When he sees Tony looking back at him with a guarded expression, Steve smiles carefully and adds, "I really do appreciate this."

Tony flashes a quick smile in return, sharp as a blade. "Be careful with that. Odds are you won't feel that grateful once you experience this mess first-hand," he answers, his tone oddly light with self-deprecating humor.

Steve pushes the response that comes to mind away, swallows the words on his tongue before he gets the chance to voice them. _It's okay to grieve, Tony. It's what humans do._ Tony might find it patronizing and, considering that Steve's not what you'd call a paragon of healthy coping mechanisms, he might be justified in feeling that way. 

"We'll see about that," he says instead, trying for casual but matter-of-fact.

Tony snorts in lieu of an actual response, although the little defiant twitch of his lips is telling enough. Steve supposes that's more than he's ought to hope for from the start. It's something, at least.

After another moment's silence, Tony clicks his tongue and brings the flat of his hand down on his thigh, signalling that they've lingered long enough. When he gets up, moving to go back upstairs and finally get some well-deserved rest, Steve follows suit without complaint. 

He climbs up the stairs after Tony, pointedly looking at his own feet that have no right to feel as heavy as they do. He's not even tired, not really. As Tony turns left, Steve goes right, the wordless goodbye making him hesitate while he approaches the room he has taken up residence in.

"I can tell, you know?"

Steve, surprised at the sudden emergence of Tony's voice, turns around to see Tony standing in the doorway to his bedroom, fingers wrapped around the edge of the frame in a white-knuckled grip. 

He doesn't elaborate. Steve can tell it's something he'd rather not address with the way his eyes flit from one point of the wall behind Steve's head to another, nervous and waiting for him to get the gist. He does have a pretty good guess, but he isn't going to go off something as fleeting as assumptions here.

"The way you–" Tony's voice dies, and he gestures lamely with one hand to explain a matter too difficult to put into words. Sighing in frustration, Tony bites his lip while shaking his head as if to reprimand himself for his inability to speak the words out loud. 

"I'm not him, Steve," he says, gently, almost. Maybe Steve's imagining it, but there's the tinge of regret in his voice. "If you're staying? If I'm going to have to remind myself of that every time I look at you? You might as well do the both of us a favor and try too. Just, please– don't make it any more complicated than it has to be."

He noticed. Of course. The long looks and contemplative gazes wouldn't go past anyone, and Tony even less so. Steve figures he's always been a lot less subtle than he assumed he was.

When there's no immediate answer from Steve, Tony nods to himself and pushes himself off the doorframe. "I'm tired," he says softly in a way of goodnight. The shadows underneath his eyes suggest he means it in a physical sense, but Steve doesn't doubt it's also true in almost every other way of interpretation.

Tony gives one last smile, maybe to soften the blow, and turns to enter his bedroom, shutting the door carefully behind him. Steve's left standing outside in the empty hallway, not ready to make himself move just yet. He watches the sliver of light shifting through the crack underneath Tony's door flicker and disappear, leaving the hallway a shade darker than before. 

Now that he's no longer preoccupied, his empty stomach grumbles as if on command. Steve exhales, mildly annoyed. Downstairs, the unlit corridor seems to swallow the other end of the staircase whole in a way that shouldn't be as eerie as it is, and Steve lets the idea go. His appetite is gone and he'll survive. Tomorrow is another day.

He retreats to his room and lies back down, even though sleep is a long way coming.

Steve twists and turns for a long, long time until he finally drifts off, pretending it's not Tony on his mind when he does.

 

* * *

 

The next morning arrives in form of watery dawn light filtering through the window overhead. 

It's cooled down overnight. When Steve stretches (as much as he's able to in the single bed) and the brisk air makes the hairs on his arms stand, it takes all his willpower and the painful emptiness in his stomach to keep him from curling back up in the blankets.

Steve sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with mild surprise. He didn't expect to sleep through to sunrise, but it must be around six in the morning already, seeing as fall has the days getting shorter and shorter at a rapid pace. 

The rest of the house is still quiet, its inhabitants asleep after yesterday's eventful evening. Steve sees to it that his journey downstairs into the kitchen doesn't disturb them; he's already done enough damage and desperately wants to avoid waking Tony anytime before eight o'clock. Steve is willing to bet the ten bucks he's got to his name that Tony Stark is not a morning person in _any_ universe.

A little undecided, he looks around the kitchen space for ingredients for a meal that would be easiest to whip together without making a mess. Tony did say to make himself at home, but Steve has his doubts whether that extends to cooking privileges. He hopes it does, because God, he could use a _big_ breakfast right about now.

In the end, he decides omelets with bacon and vegetables should be doable. As Steve gathers everything he needs on the counter, he stumbles upon another question: would it be rude to cook just enough for himself? Or would it be rud _er_ to make more and use up a whole carton of eggs in the process, all without permission?

He's probably overthinking this. Steve shakes his head to himself and cracks the remaining eggs into the frying pan. If Tony doesn't appreciate the gesture, he'll have no problem eating one or two omelets more. 

Steve hums quietly to himself as he cooks. The kitchen window has a nice view. With a dense forest in the back, the lake lies there still and dark, surface blanketed in a thin veil of mist. The early morning light drenches the world in bright, crisp shades, and Steve almost burns his breakfast admiring the peaceful scenery. 

He finishes cooking quickly and sits down to eat (read: wolf down every bite without so much as chewing because he's positively starving). Steve's at his third serving when he first hears noises through the ceiling. It takes another two omelets until voices in the hallway announce another impending confrontation with his hosts – Steve glances at the kitchen, paranoid, like it might've all gone up in flames in the span of those five minutes he hasn't looked. 

Maria is the first to come bolting into the room, barely even taking note of him as she makes a beeline for the refrigerator. She now seems to have accepted his presence without so much as a moment's hesitation, which is a huge step forward from the distrust he's been faced yesterday. Steve files that away as a positive development for the moment.

Tony arrives a lot slower and appears still semi-asleep when he does. His eyes scan the scene briefly, and when Steve flashes an apologetic half-smile and scratches the back of his neck a little guiltily, Tony only waves a dismissive gesture in passing and murmurs 'good morning' through a yawn. 

His being awake is unmistakably courtesy of his daughter, because he's definitely wearing the look of someone who'd still be sleeping if he had gotten his way. There's an evident pillow crease across his cheek and his eyes are in the process of drooping close when Maria's excited voice hogs his attention. 

"Can I please get the boat after breakfast? You don't even have to watch, I promise I'll be careful," she says, talking so quickly she stumbles over her words. She eyes Tony with a sweet smile and adds pleadingly, "Pleeease?"

The sleep in Tony's features makes way for a groggy smile. "Alright. Breakfast first, bathroom second, and then you can go," he allows, eyes softening as his daughter jumps in delight. She grabs her bowl of Fruit Loops and sits at the table across from Steve, shoveling spoonfuls into her mouth at record speed until Tony tells her to slow down.

Tony's first official act of the day is activating the coffee machine, which comes as a surprise to no one. He's leaning against the counter as he waits, stifling another yawn. Steve realizes he's stopped eating in favor of watching their interaction take place and is now watching _Tony_ out of the corner of his eye. He looks away hastily, continuing his meal. Hell, Tony told him to back off in the nicest way possible; he could at least _try_ and do as he's been asked. 

After a minute, Maria has emptied her bowl and jumps back up, almost tripping over her own feet as she speeds off down the hallway. Steve's really getting curious about this boat thing now. He asks Tony, who's still intently focused on the coffee machine but swiftly turns toward him upon hearing his voice. 

"Oh, uh, we built a miniature speedboat together? Two, actually. And now she's very determined to take it for a spin every day because last time she raced her friend she lost," he answers, the memory causing a faint chuckle to escape him. Tony gathers a cup from one of the cupboards and proceeds to fill it to the brim, not noticing as Steve smiles quietly into his fifth omelet. 

Then, when Tony turns to sit, he remembers himself. "I didn't know whether you'd want one, but there's enough, if you like," Steve says and points at the still considerably large stack of omelets in front of him. When the other man eyes it in indecision, he quickly scrambles for words, "Really, they're not half bad."

Tony’s lips tick upward just so and he grabs a plate for himself, only convinced once he’s given the omelet a taste. He hums approvingly. “Might make you stick around against your will if you turn out to have a secret knack for cooking,” he jokes, ignoring the sudden change in the atmosphere and the way the air seems to settle heavier around them whenever they’re alone in the same room together with their focus solely on each other. Steve knows, rationally, that it’s only a projection of his own discomfort, but it’s hard to pretend like that doesn't make it real. 

“I mean, I’ll have to earn my keep somehow,” he counters, shrugging. Tony looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. They eat in silence until JARVIS speaks up, informing Tony that his daughter is already headed outside, closely monitored by the A.I. itself. 

Tony is just about to finish his meal (he’s only eaten half, but that’s about what was to be expected) when Steve decides now’s as good a time as any. 

“So… JARVIS.” 

Having drained the last drops of coffee, Tony shoots him an expectant look over the brim of his cup, waiting for an explanation.

Steve clears his throat. “You revived him? After Ultron? Or when Vision was…?”

Tony looks – puzzled. And that can’t be. How could their timelines be identical in excruciating detail and differ in this major event, one that, in his world, changed the team in a substantial way?

The brunet’s expression transforms into one of feigned suffering, and then he says, “I haven't had to utter that sentence in about four decades, but– I don't know two of the nine words that just came out of your mouth."

Well, that settles it. Steve blows out a breath, contemplating how and when to begin his quick rundown of the events that transpired back in 2015. He decides to work them off chronologically, starting with Strucker, the twins and the scepter, and Tony surprisingly nods along for most of it and comments that yes, they had that happen as well.

Things change when Steve gets to the uncomfortable part. He’s only halfway into explaining how their Tony decided to experiment with the scepter without so much as informing or consulting the team when the Tony present cuts in.

“Okay, wow. Look, I was considering doing this _exact_ thing, and then I figured I might do well to talk to Steve about it because he’d bite my head off if he found out I just went over their heads with this.” He pauses, stunned. “I ended up telling him about– my vision. So, we called for a team meeting, discussed the matter and decided, together, that it was too great of a risk. And that was the end of that.”

The reminder that almost all of his and Tony’s fallouts could’ve easily been avoided if they’d just opened their damn mouths and talked to each other pains Steve to this day. They always had to take the path of greatest resistance.

Tony looks almost curious now, urging him to go on as he leans back in his chair and settles in to listen. So, Steve clears his throat and gets ready to talk.

“Let’s just say it was far from over for us…”

–

In the hallway, the front door’s flung open, Maria’s stomps announcing her return. 

Tony uses this occasion to declare their conversation over, rubbing both hands over his face. He's had five cups of coffee in this past hour that they’ve gone over every minute detail in their timelines, finding most things unrelated to the Ultron event matching. He hasn’t forgotten about Tony’s fleeting mention of Extremis the day before, but it’s yet another topic the man only touches upon very briefly. It’s clear as day there’s a story there – one that, by all accounts, Tony doesn’t plan on telling. 

Steve thinks it strange that these should be the only major things amiss, but Tony was very adamant about not wanting to speak of the Accords and everything that came after and Steve isn’t so insensitive as to straight out ask him about Afghanistan, so he brushes off the thought. 

Despite the fact that coffee must run in Tony’s veins at this point, the tolerance to caffeine he’s likely built up a few decades ago prevents it from changing anything about his stage of wakefulness. He lounges in the chair, carding his hands through his already mussed up hair and makes no attempt at moving; Steve takes it upon himself to clean up the table, seeing as it’s the least he can do. 

“Daddy!” Maria has a skip in her walk when she comes in, throwing herself at Tony who barely manages to hold onto her and keep her from sliding down his chest again.

She grins. “Guess what?” 

Tony’s response is a long-drawn ‘uh’, visibly overwhelmed by the sudden demand. His daughter rolls her eyes playfully and doesn’t seem to want to wait for him to solve the riddle, because she tells him, “Broke my record. Tell him, JARVIS!”

“Young Miss did indeed beat her previous best time of 24.79 by 3.83 seconds. 20.96 seconds for a 550 foot distance traveled by an electrically driven miniature speedboat is a record thus far unchallenged, provided that the entries in the Guinness World Records at my disposal are valid and up-to-date.”

At JARVIS' thorough explanation, Tony smiles, and declares his daughter will later have to show him exactly how she did it – Steve watches the endearing scene between the two from the sidelines despite himself, and quickly turns to sort their used plates into the dishwasher once he notices. 

 

* * *

 

After two days, Steve gets restless. He's been cooped up in and around the house for a while, and his body has built up enough excess energy to last him… well, he hasn't had the opportunity to put the theory to the test, but he could do a couple of triathlons right about now. 

Before he even gets a chance to voice the need for physical exercise, he finds a set of running gear laid out on his bed that's seemingly appeared by its lonesome. Tony casually mentions that it's impossible to get lost in these parts if you stick to the trails around the property in their next conversation, and so he's off on his morning run the very next day. 

Filling his lungs with crisp air as he rounds the lake and then follows a path into the woods feels like being born anew. For the first time in what feels like ages, Steve doesn't think; his mind is wonderfully quiet, lacking all the incessant noise doubts and mistakes so often love to create. All the relief even has him forgetting about time for a while, and when he finally returns to the lakehouse, the sun has moved up to the center of the sky. 

There's nobody in the house, but Steve hears the two Starks from the garage on the other side of the building, and so he uses that opportunity to have a shower and put his sweat-soaked clothes in the wash. He won't put anyone through the misfortune of being in smelling distance of his body odor after a five-hour run if he can help it. 

When he's made himself presentable again and the house is still quiet, Steve chances a glance at the clock in the kitchen. It's past noon already, and from what he can tell, lunch hasn't been served yet. Tony seemed appreciative enough of his cooking last time – considering he said so himself, he surely wouldn't mind a repeat instance of it. 

Tony doesn't mind, although he does seem a little surprised when he looks up from the car engine that just a moment ago swallowed his entire upper body.

At Steve's announcement of lunch being served, Maria peeks out of the backseat of the Audi convertible, grease stain on her cheek indicating that she, too, has been involved in the aforementioned vehicle's (dis)assembly before she transferred her attention to the Nintendo game currently clutched in her hands. 

While Tony slowly rises to his feet and wipes the worst of the grime into a well-used towel, his daughter is already speeding past him toward the house. Steve's gaze trails after the girl making her way over the lawn at astounding velocity – she really _is_ fast. As they follow suit (albeit at a more measured pace), he mentions his observation to Tony, who promptly snickers. 

"Well, she _is_ a super-soldier's daughter."

Steve blinks. Sure, he considered it, but he didn't think– Fact is, he's gone through a fair share of invasive medical exams in his time, and this being a possibility is something the scientists never brought up. Hence he figured there was nothing out of the ordinary with… well. 

"You're saying his–" 

"Uh-huh." 

"And she's–" 

"Yup."

Steve shuts up after that. 

As they climb the couple of stairs to the front porch, Tony shoots him a half-smile over his shoulder. "Thanks for this, though," he says after a beat. "I'm pretty sure Maria would've chewed my arm off if I'd made her wait another ten minutes for something other to eat than mini pretzels."

–

Steve gets to play pretend like that for a few days, and it's nice while it lasts. 

It's serene out here, despite Maria's ( _and_ her dad's) shrieks when the both of them stage a squirt gun battle in the backyard. They're dripping with lake water quickly, and as the temperatures don't allow for prolonged bouts of that sort of activity anymore, they trot past Steve into the house soon after. 

Maria doesn't pay him any mind, walking past as he sits there on the bench with that ridiculous novel about the ghost whisperer. In fact, she rarely ever takes note of his presence at all except when it's called for, like a thank-you for dinner or a good night after that. Steve's a simple houseguest, and that's that – one that's a carbon copy of her lost parent, but just a guest nonetheless.

He wonders why the girl was so adamant about having him stay with the family when the fact seems to be of so little importance now, but tries not to give that notion all too much meaning. Albeit bright, she's still a kid, and all this… well, it's a lot, no less so for the adults involved. 

Anyway – it's serene out here, with the lake, the winds stirring the almost barren trees and the sing-song of the birds that gradually dwindles as many of them travel south as fall progresses. 

The days are longer, somehow, and Steve isn't convinced that the fact he just doesn't _do_ much is solely responsible for it. He thinks he understands it better now, why, after the Decimation and everything that came with it, his _and_ this world's Tony chose to come out here. Chose this, isolation and primitivity – both of which is relative, but especially for a man like Tony Stark who'd be used to towers and mansions, a house by the lake could be viewed as such – over luxuries that had felt safe and familiar before but served then as a constant reminder of his failings. 

Presented with a choice, maybe Steve'd pick this too. The simple life, he's long given up on seeking, but the _quiet_ life? That's… achievable. Tony won't want him around here forever, but he can imagine striking some kind of deal with Fury – a house, somewhere quiet, to forget about the guilt on the good days and make the regret sting a little less sharp on the bad ones. And in exchange, well.

Steve's already given most of his soul to this cause, sawing off bits and pieces of himself to earn them all one more day of freedom, one more day of being. Might as well offer up whatever's left, too. 

"So… I called. They're getting here tomorrow, and, uh, nobody said, but I bet you Fury will be coming to see this with his own eye. Thought you might wanna know, fair warning and all." 

Tony's voice is strikingly neutral; he's leaning against the wooden pillar at the porch, facing Steve as he balances a basket of laundry at his hip. He just finished collecting clothes (that had been soaked in the squirt gun incident) from the clothesline outside and seems to have only spontaneously been struck with the thought of informing him about SHIELD's nearing arrival. 

"Right. That's– good. Thanks for the heads-up," Steve answers, proud that his voice doesn't sound half as choked as he feels. 

It's not his right to feel blindsided, because he isn't. He knew this was going to happen – Tony announced they'd work with them from the get-go. As much as he wants to (wants nothing more, in fact), he can't hide out here forever. Not to mention that's not who Steve is; he might want to hide and pretend, but at the end of the day, he's going to go out and face the music. Get it done and over with, ugly as it may be. 

So, even now that just about everything seems preferable over yet again meeting the man who's going to sit him down, tell him just the right amount of things and then direct him to his place in this new world – even now, Steve smiles at Tony, grateful for the news yet not, and soldiers on. 

 

They arrive at eight on the dot next morning, in trademark, inconspicuous SUVs with only the eagle emblazoned on the side of the vehicles indicative of their sender. 

 

"I gotta say," the man says, stepping foot out of the car first, his presence still imposing as ever. "I was _this_ close to resigning myself to the fact that this was gonna be another one of Stark's antics, but I've been pleasantly surprised for the very first time." 

Tony gasps in feigned outrage. "Nick, I'm wounded, really." As Fury steps closer and Steve moves to shake his hand while the man's good eye burns a hole in his profile, Tony speaks up again. 

"They didn't conveniently leave out our terms and conditions, did they? This is why I don't like being passed off to your secretaries. Middle-men are bothersome in negotiations."

Fury, after squeezing his hand a degree tighter than ultimately necessary – like that would somehow test his identity for its authenticity – sounds a sigh clearly aimed at Tony, arms akimbo underneath his coat. "We received your instructions loud and clear, Anthony. Routine questionnaire, routine examination. No goods will be damaged. It's in everybody's best interest to evaluate what _exactly_ happened here and what's to be done about it next." 

Tony isn't finished, that much is made obvious by his lips parting yet again for another semi-serious jab at his conversational partner. Steve doesn't let him get another word in, though; there's no need to argue over the exact intricacies of this arrangement. He can deal with it. God knows he's had worse. 

"It's fine, Tony," he insists, flashing a quick smile at the other man. "I need to get this out of the way, see what options I have. If there are some. I'll see you."

Tony deflates with a sigh. "Fine. I'll see you, Steve." 

  
  
  


They don't restrain him, Steve'll give them that. 

He rides in the back of Fury's car with another agent who does his utmost to appear casual, which doesn't account for much considering Steve can very clearly see the outline of multiple tools underneath his coat designed to take out a super-soldier. He's pretty sure at least one of them is a tranquilizer gun, but, well… Can't really fault them for taking precautions, can he? 

The drive to the facility at the outskirts of New York is long and tense. When they arrive, he's first sent to medical – that figures. Steve sighs and bows to his fate. Isn't his first rodeo, in any case. 

Surprisingly, the extent of the examination is within reasonable limits. They draw some blood (six vials, to be exact), take his measurements (all of them), have him spit in a tube, do some basic strength tests (good enough stress relief) and finally match his profile against a picture of a man who he can only imagine is this universe's late Steve Rogers. 

After that, he's lead to a conference room, where he doesn't come face to face with Fury but instead a trio of agents, two men and a woman, the latter of which is sitting at a virtual keyboard. They sit him down – there's a hundred-ounce bottle of water and a cup in front of him – and ask him to retell every major event that occurred in his timeline. Yes, that includes everything before his waking up from the ice – he did, in fact, get frozen as well, no? 

It's going to be a long day. 

He actually gets through it in about two hours, although it would've probably taken less time if he'd clarified some of the details from the get-go – no, Ma'am, he actually _wasn't_ married to Anthony Stark – and avoided having to be asked further questions.

Finally, two of the ~~interrogators~~ minute takers make off, the tablet they punched all the information he provided them into leaving in the woman's hands, while the remaining agent stays positioned at the door. 

He doesn't get to leave until some time later, when the man at the door receives instructions through the comms device in his ear – Steve can make out the voice on the other end perfectly well, and they're telling the agent now in charge of him to 'escort him to the office'. 

Well, here's hoping. 

The building's layout is unlike any he's used to from his days at SHIELD – then again, they've never had major headquarters in NYC, either. It's curious that this is one of the few things that would be different. Steve follows the agent's lead up an elevator and through a variety of corridors; he memorizes the way they came, just in case. 

Fury's office is as expansive as the one Steve was familiar with in his world. The great glass panes behind the desk allow for an almost picturesque view of the city in the back – a view that is disturbed only by the countenance of one Director Nick Fury, whose expression turns to one of displeasure as he notices Steve's increasing absentmindedness. 

He doesn't mean to, really, but it's only so long until rehashing every minor detail of your past and present existence will start to get on your nerves. The things he hoped to get an answer to were more or less brushed off by the man in the beginning – they'll consider retrieving the Tesseract, yes, but since the odds that it'll take him back where he came from are little to none, it might end up being too great of a risk to take for such a small chance of pay-off. 

That's all the answer Steve gets. It sounds like a 'no' by any stretch of the imagination. Looks like he's painting a miserable enough picture that not even Fury wants to be the one to break the news to him that he'll be stuck here for good. 

Or maybe, just _maybe,_ nobody here wants to straight out tell him that they'd rather keep this Captain America 2.0 that conveniently fell out of the sky and into their hands for themselves than send him back home. Just a guess, though. 

Fury glances down at the papers on his desk another time and then his brows suddenly furrow a little, a micro-expression lost to most, and the corner of his mouth twitches minutely like he's spotted something that's of interest. 

He leans forward on his elbows, hands clasped tightly. Here they go again. 

"So, let me get this straight one more time: You returned the Tesseract to where it belonged at the time, which, as you've established, was the bunker in Camp Leigh. And then," Fury chuckles, and Steve doesn't like where this is going. "And _then_ , it did its little magic trick and spit you back out in Tony Stark's backyard? Not, as one might assume, in at least the vicinity of the place it originally took you from?" 

Steve opens his mouth to argue, but Fury holds up a hand to silence him before there are any words spoken, and he begrudgingly follows suit. 

"Now, I'm sorry, Captain, but you'll excuse me for not taking your word for it, seeing as it's very clear where your loyalties lie. Look, I know Stark's had a hard time of it. And _you–_ you want to protect him, I get it. But if Tony Stark has orchestrated a secret experiment to kidnap Captain America from another dimension and is now trying to pass off his appearance as a mere coincidence, I need to know."

Steve feels his mouth fall open. Steve can tell he's pushing himself up from his seat. Steve hears the chair slide back and topple over with the force of it. 

The rest is a bit of a blur. 

Fury sees the punch coming, of course. He dodges it with little effort, and in the next moment, a group of heavily armored agents enters the office and wrestles him out into the hallway.

Steve could've broken free if he really wanted to, but he's aware he already caused more trouble for himself than what's warranted, given his situation and the fact that he's very much reliant on SHIELD should Tony get fed up with his presence eventually. 

The room they put him in next is nothing short of a cell. Really, it looks an awful lot like the interrogation rooms they had back when he was with SHIELD – gray, flat surfaces, no loose pieces to be used as bludgeons and empty but for a rectangular bench bolted to the floor. 

And Steve thought they'd had a pretty nice conversation, with the exception of the rather unpleasant ending. 

He doesn't know how long he waits for something to happen, but his inner clock tells him it's been something close to two hours when the door swings open. Steve immediately shoots up to see who's on the other side, wary, bracing himself for the worst. 

The first face he spots is Tony's. He's flooded with instant relief and only so refrains from exhaling audibly. 

"Knew leaving you alone with them was a bad idea," Tony says, nonchalant, but his shoulders slump as built-up tension leaves his body and he's fooling no one. 

Steve lets him lead the way. They're escorted by a single agent who looks like he wishes he didn't have to be here; in fact, all the ones they encounter in the winding corridors give them a wide berth. First, Steve assumes it's thanks to him, but then he catches one big guy eyeing Tony warily as he walks by, and from then on reality becomes hard to miss. 

Tony doesn't look amused either. What kind of scene he had to cause and which threats he had to make to get Steve released is anyone's guess, but it seems everyone in the vicinity has somehow gotten wind of it. He shoots some of them challenging glares, daring them to so much as move their pinky, and appears a little– huffy. It strikes Steve that that may be why they seem to know their little party is approaching before even having laid eyes on them – Tony must smell the part as well, giving off a scent that would alert everyone but Steve to watch out for the emotionally loaded omega heading their way. 

When they've, thankfully, made it out of the building without any major incidents (if one were to classify Tony physically _snarling_ at the front-desk worker politely bidding them goodbye a minor incident), Tony drives them home in the Audi. 

Which model it is exactly Steve still doesn't know, only that it has no trouble going a breezy 100 miles per hour on a road that's marked at 50 while the built-in GPS screams at him to _please for the love of god,_ keep within the speed limit. Little does it know the man behind the wheel can, in fact, afford a speeding ticket or two (hundred). 

"How'd you convince them?" 

Tony blows out a breath and rubs his forehead as if he's just remembering the headache pounding behind his temples. 

"Eh, you know, tried the usual first. Bellowing empty threats, bellowing _real_ threats. But, seeing as that was less effective than expected… I had to promise I'd let them conduct a search – not that they're gonna find anything – and that you'd come in for questioning again if and when they consider it necessary."

Steve nods. "Sounds pretty tame, considering." 

He gets a smirk in return. "Considering you jumped Fury on the grounds that his suspicion I might've gone coo-coo and stole you from another timeline upset you?" 

Hearing it like that, it does sound like a bit of an overreaction. Steve feels his ears burning with shame but can't get himself to admit to the fact that he could (and should) have handled the situation differently. Impulse control sometimes isn't on the forefront of his mind, especially when related to unjust accusations that are nowhere near the truth. Especially when related to Tony. 

"I didn't like the way he said it," he replies, shrugging, and knows he looks defensive when he crosses his arms over his chest. 

The glare Tony shoots him is probably supposed to come off as chiding, but the willful curl of his lip gives his amusement away. 

"Well, maybe consider other ways of conflict resolution before you go and punch someone next time you feel like defending my honor." 

 

* * *

 

In the first week, Fury makes good on his promise and sends a team to search the house and its perimeter for any anomalies – the agents are turning over every rock-slash-object around the house (quite literally, to Tony’s immense dismay) while a few lab coats carry out all sorts of scientific tests, hoping to come across a trace of anything that may indicate Fury's suspicions to be true. 

They're there for half a day, and then, after having inspected everything twice with probing gazes and Geiger counters and all that other equipment Steve doesn't know nor thinks to ask about, they pack up again. The collective disappointment about the eagerly anticipated evidence failing to materialize hangs over their heads like the blanket of clouds on the pale september sky. 

The agents hurry from one corner of the property to the other to store everything back in the vans they arrived in before the rain announcing itself on the horizon sets in. One man gives Tony, watching from the sidelines with a smug quirk to his lips and crossed arms, the dirty side-eye as he jogs past. 

"Tragic thing is, now they'll report this waste of time to Fury and he's gonna stop and think to himself, well, _shit_. Of course Stark wouldn't do this in his own motherfuckin' backyard, he'd rent a whole industrial compound somewhere far away where he thinks nobody'll find it. And then _I'm_ going to have this whole investigation on my hands and–"

He stops and exhales an exhausted sigh, as if the prospect alone has already drained him of all his energy. Then, he hums in thought. "Should've just planted something, huh?" 

Steve chuckles at the man's ramblings. He won't say it and ruin the fun, but he's almost positive willfully incriminating himself would do Tony no good in the long run. Sure, Fury's people sniffing around and getting all up in his business will be testing his patience for a while, but in the end, there won't be any leads to follow and they're going to be forced to drop the matter. 

Later, Tony bids them goodbye with a provocative, little wave and retreats back into the house, in which peace is finally reestablished. Steve waits outside until they're about to leave – which is when an older woman with cropped hair who appears to have overseen the entire operation approaches him and quickly makes her intentions known. 

She doesn't beat around the bush, only slips him a blank card with a number on it and says, "If you ever change your mind, we'll send someone. Director Fury would still like to see you with us, Captain Rogers."

He doesn't get to react beyond a nod and a tight smile before she's already turned her back to him and enters the van at the very front of the convoy, the last person to arrive. They leave, after that. 

An overly optimistic part of him wants to take the card and rip it apart, but the more realistic one knows he can't take that chance. This is the only thing he has in this world if Tony ever wants him gone. Steve pockets the slip of paper and later puts it face down in the bottom drawer of his nightstand for safekeeping. 

 

It takes a while, but they settle into a kind of routine. 

 

Not that Steve's ever really been on one (well, there was that weekend in Prague, but it'd been a business trip that Tony dragged him along for so he never counts it), but he figures this is what being on vacation must be like. 

He's just there and does his thing – and that thing turns out to be cooking, going for runs and avoiding alone time with Tony – and there's… not much happening beyond that. Steve isn't complaining, in all honesty, because the lack of obligations or world-shattering threats for a change is actually quite refreshing. Whenever his brain needs some stimulation that doesn't involve figuring out a new recipe, Steve takes to reading those many different books stored in the guest room. 

One day, Tony catches him reading the sequel to the ghostwhisperer book and, clearly suppressing a smirk, suggests he order something Steve might actually want to read. But the thing is, Steve likes it. Not just the book but all of it, this whole bookcase with its strange, cobbled-together assortment of genres. It's like – the quote from that movie, with books instead of the box of chocolates. Never know what you're gonna get. 

When Steve explains the fact of the matter to him with audible enthusiasm, Tony's amused smirk gradually wanes, softens, into something more delicate and finally, brittle. It's one of the moments they'll try to pretend have never existed later, the next time they come across one another with renewed strength to hold up their respective poker faces. 

In the end, the first thing they'll see, looking at one another, is a lost love – in every possible sense. 

Steve tries not to be that hopelessly pessimistic most of the time. Really, they manage well, for the better part. The wounds, for all that they are still fresh and ever-present, don't sting unless they accidentally happen to press right on them.

And the moments-that-aren't happen occasionally, but after, they shake themselves out of it, brush off the dust and move on. Tony still hasn't voiced any regrets about allowing him to stay with them, and that's already a plus in Steve's book. 

Sometimes, him and his daughter will go out, and Steve has the house to himself. 

It's very different when he's there and has only his own thoughts to keep him company. The serenity becomes too loud, the loneliness crushing. He isn't used to being alone anymore – before, he's had the compound, and before that, there was the tower – and doesn't like it. It's a reminder of the time after they'd found him in the ice and he'd gotten the apartment in Brooklyn, thinking it'd do him well to be back there. Except, well, it wasn't anything like he imagined; he could spot enough things reminding of his time, but that wasn't it. 

No, for the first time, he was entirely, truly alone – and although that isn't quite true now, the threat of it always lingers in the back of his head, waiting to make its presence known whenever he catches a glimpse of it on these occasions. 

Steve is overcome with instant relief whenever, after a long day, he hears familiar voices on the porch and the door unlock, and it gives him pause. 

Maybe that quiet place of his own he dreamed up a while ago isn't for him after all. 

On one of these evenings, when Tony and Maria have returned sooner than usual, he's settled in on the living room couch, book in hand and cup of tea by the side. The faint noises, indicative of other people's presence in the building, are relaxing – there's the hum of music from the garage and the scratch of pencil on paper from the kitchen table. 

Then, the latter pauses, replaced by shuffling steps on wooden flooring that decrease in volume. It takes a moment, and the music stops as well; for a second, there's nothing. After the brief silence, the music comes back on and the steps return, now approaching. 

Maria comes into the room sliding over the floor on her socks. She only escapes an imminent collision with the coffee table by the skin of her teeth, breath a little labored as she comes to a standstill and looks at him questioningly. 

"Steve?" 

He doesn't remember every being addressed this directly by the girl. 

"...yeah?"

She flops onto the sofa next to him and turns the sheets of paper in her hand around for him to see. Steve squints – advanced high school algebra, he'd say. 

"Check for me, please?" She sighs and does half an eye-roll. "Daddy says he needs ten more minutes. That's _ages_." 

He sits up, puts his book away and takes the offered pages from her hands. After he's skimmed through them, the thing he's feared from the get-go proves true: this goes over his head. Sure, he gets the baser concepts, but he doesn't know where he'd start to test these calculations for their mathematical accuracy. 

Steve purses his lips and rubs his neck, trying to quench the embarrassment flaring up. She's a Stark – of course he can't keep up, not in this regard. 

"I'm sorry, but these are too difficult for me. You're too smart," he says, smiling to make the news a little less bad. 

Maria blows out a long, very exasperated breath, flopping onto her back. "Didn't you say some things are different where you're from?" she asks, an accusing undercurrent in her voice.

Steve is about to inquire what she's referring to, but she goes on to elaborate on her own. "Papa always said the same thing," she grumbles. "I thought maybe you might be smart like Daddy."

Ouch. Steve chuckles, but promptly swallows the noise when she shoots him a disgruntled look, eyes distinctly narrowed. Right, how dare him? This is a serious matter.

"Well, I can't help you with your math problems, but we could find a way to pass the time until he's done with his work?" Steve suggests, looking around the room in the search for something that might interest the girl. Finally, his gaze lands on the container of colored pencils on the far side of the coffee table. There's an idea. 

"Do you like to draw? We'd just need some more paper. I might not have your smarts, but I can draw a nice– uh, boat? Do you like boats in general or is it just the ones you built?" 

She grins and, with an 'oof', heaves herself back upright. "No, I like them. Sailboats are totally cool. Daddy promised we'd go sailing to the Maldives next summer," she informs him, flopping the small stack of paper with her calculations on it over to its blank side. "There. More paper." 

Steve can't even think to protest – she's resourceful, that's a good trait to have. If Tony wants to make some notes on her work later, well, he'll have to get his own paper. 

They draw side by side for a while. Steve, as per Maria's wish, makes the central topic of his piece nautics-related. He quickly sketches parts of a pirate ship, the flag with skull and crossbones on display. Behind the ship's wheel is a slightly taller version of her, sporting an appropriate outfit for the occasion complete with eye-patch, hook hand and parrot. 

Maria gapes at him when he slides it over to her. It's a rough sketch and not perfect by any means, but in her eyes, the uneloquent details don't stand out at all. "I'm hanging this in my room," she decides resolutely. Steve smiles. "I'm honored." 

Then, he catches a glance of the drawing Maria has worked on during all this time: it's a colorful illustration of a sailboat, three stick figures on its deck. The sail's triangle has "Maldives 2024" written on it in blocky letters, and the background is a sea of bright blue and splotches of green land, with the occasional flipped-over '3' depicting a seagull. 

Two of the people on board have a brown mop of hair, one of them smaller than the other. The tallest stick figure is blond and probably happier than Steve can remember himself ever being. It's ear-to-ear smile is almost mocking him: _you better take a looong look at this, buddy, because this is everything you'll never have!_

He notices Maria looking at him expectantly and swallows, blinking to shake himself out of the haze. When he meets her with an encouraging smile, it doesn't even shake.

"I'm beginning to think you might be smart _and_ have a knack for the arts," he grins. "But, you know, I– don't think l'll be able to go with you next year." 

That last part makes her deflate a little, and she shrugs. "Yeah, I guess. It was just an idea," she answers, turning back to hash out some details in her drawing. 

Tony arrives shortly thereafter, strolling over to the kitchen saying, "Okay, honey, what do you need me to–" until he realizes his daughter is not there and he's talking to himself. He whirls around, locking on Steve's figure sitting at the couch and then, after a moment, spots Maria next to him – his shoulders sag just the smallest bit as he lays eyes on her. 

The girl jumps up as he approaches, both her and Steve's drawing clutched in hand. "Look at what we made!"

She shoves the sheets of paper into his hands, and Tony grabs both and regards them in turn, silence dragging longer as he studies them and Maria shifts on her feet in anticipation of his reaction. 

"These are both very cool. I'm impressed." Steve sees a familiar strain around Tony's lips, yet everything he does is pull his daughter in with one hand and press a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. "There's my little artist, huh? You haven't drawn anything for me in months, glad the creative streak's back." 

The wording makes Steve blink and his throat tighten uncomfortably, and even more so when he realizes the last sentence was meant for him more than it was for Maria. 

Over the back of the couch, Tony's gaze meets his. It's sad, but there's something else beneath that wistful glaze that is a little less somber. A touch of gratefulness, even. 

 

Maria approaches him more often after that. 

 

It's like they've overcome some sort of barrier that was impossible to get over a few weeks prior. Suddenly, Steve exists, is spoken to and invited to miniature motorboat races (which he loses) and generally treated like just a new family member. Like that happens every day. 

In the beginning, it overwhelms him, this airy light-heartedness he isn't used to from anyone. It dies, somehow, somewhere, when you grow older – but this young Miss Stark certainly still has it, and lives it with her whole being. 

If Tony dislikes how quickly she's taken to Steve, he doesn't show it. Maybe for his daughter's sake. She hasn't made it apparent that any of it weighs on her, this sudden involvement of his in their lives; children often cope differently with loss, so while it isn't surprising, it still makes Steve fear he might be doing something wrong for the whole duration of his time with them. 

Beside drawing, Maria has also helped him prepare breakfast multiple times, glad to find someone already up in the kitchen as she came downstairs. (Tony hasn't outright mentioned it to him, but he's definitely benefited from the fact that he isn't being dragged out of bed every day anew at what he'd consider the asscrack of dawn.) 

It's why Steve is surprised to find that today, this isn't the case. 

He's returned from his run and finds Tony in the kitchen, putting used dishes in the washer. There's two half-empty cups of coffee on the counter waiting to be put away. He points at them, inquisitive, "Visitors?"

Tony perks up, following his eye line. "Oh, Pepper was here," he says, "she and Happy are taking Maria until tomorrow. It's a monthly thing." 

Pepper _and_ Happy. That's nice, Steve figures. And she always seemed like a morning person – getting as much out of the day as possible and such. With Tony's daughter in her care, that would probably count double.

Tony leaves after he's finished cleaning up the kitchen, up the stairs and, probably, to sleep. Steve has an usually quiet breakfast all by himself and then takes his shower. The house is quiet again. 

The day passes, slow, but it does. Steve reads and busies himself with the StarkPhone Tony's handed him a few days ago, casual as he is with material goods. He does some more research on it, ranging from historic events over biology to pop-culture. 

In the evening, he enters the garage to (maybe) convince Tony to come out and eat dinner, especially since he hasn't had lunch. Steve doesn't feel he has the right to argue with him about his eating habits; while they've spent a considerable amount of time in the other's presence and are far from strangers, well…

Whichever way you look at it, he's still a guest in this place. A guest reminding of someone loved and gone, and that doesn't make the matter any easier. 

When he pushes the door open, he finds Tony not buried in the guts of a car, or below one, or just tinkering with any piece of tech at all. Instead, he's sitting at the workbench at the far wall of the room, holograms throwing streaks of blue all over the otherwise dimly lit room. 

"Play it again, J." 

Steve almost flinches, but the words are not directed at him as he stands there in the door. Instead its JARVIS, who now starts playing a video recording of– him. Well, not _him._ The Steve who belongs in this universe; who's died like his Tony has. (It's not that he needs to remind himself of that fact. He thinks of it every day) 

There's a group of people in the recording, all in varying states of inebriation and some of them wearing pointy party hats. Steve's pretty sure he can see Natasha on the left and, of course, Tony, right by his counterpart's side. 

 _No, no wait. You can't–_ The Steve in the recording laughs. _You need to say it with more stress on the_ **_'please'._ ** _Like, um–_

He clears his throat, and the voice he's speaking in next sounds nothing like the person he's trying to mimick, but that's obviously intentional. 

 **_Please_ ** _tell me nobody kissed me. I might've been making eyes at you for the past twelve hours, Rogers, but_ **_please,_ ** _no more! I won't stand for it!_

The past Tony begins to protest loudly, but that's when the recording abruptly ends. 

Present Tony sits there for a long second, and finally, breathes out an exhale and rises from the swivel chair. In Steve's hurry to get out of his field of vision and not betray that he's been accidentally eavesdropping on him, he kicks over the bucket of spare parts at his feet – because of course he does. He told Tony this would happen. 

The man whips his head around to look at him and, when he spots Steve's face in the doorframe, huffs in defeat, not even seeming mad or anything of the sort. Not angry, not annoyed, just… tired.

"Sorry, I was gonna say– Dinner's ready," Steve lets him know, coughing to paint over the awkwardness and the suddenly stifling temperatures in the room that have absolutely nothing to do with the heat crawling up the back of his neck. 

Tony nods and that's that. He moves to leave, and so Steve follows. 

They eat their food in silence. Steve dares to say he's never felt so out of place, so much urge to fill the silence with words than right now – and Tony, who always knows something to say, who so expertly fills time and space with the spoken word and knows to bend it to his will and forge a blade with it like nobody else he's ever known, doesn't say anything.

Tony, who has, incredibly, cleared his plate – and isn't it strange that Steve's the one without appetite now – stands up from his seat and puts it in the sink, which he plugs and begins to fill with water. There's barely any dishes to fill the dishwasher today. 

Steve walks over to him just as he's turning off the flow of water and puts his finally empty plate in with the others. When Tony doesn't make to move, he hesitates– maybe he should volunteer to do the chore? 

Tony then fully leans against the counter next to him, facing the window. He watches the dying sun throw streaks of orange over the surface of the lake and the colors reflect beautifully in his watery eyes when he says, "Sometimes I wake up and all those details I could remember perfectly well yesterday are blurring together in my mind. How did the pitch of his laugh sound like? Did he have dimples when he smiled? I don't know, and it terrifies me." 

His throat bobs when he swallows, hard, fingers twitching where he's laid his palm down on the counter. Steve averts his gaze before he gives into that incessant urge in the back of his head that so badly wants to take hold of Tony’s hand. 

Although Tony isn't looking at him and won't notice, Steve smiles in sympathy. He knows what it is that Tony fears, this nagging feeling that even something you thought you could treasure forever is gradually slipping through your fingers. It's an irrational fear, but a real one nevertheless. 

"I didn't have a single picture of my Ma after I woke up from the ice, but it didn't matter. She's still there. It's… not so much about remembering every excruciating detail than it is about moments you had, experiences you shared. What you felt. Those are things you never forget."

Steve turns away from the scenery outside to find Tony looking at him, arms crossed and head tilted an inch to the side with the hint of a soft smile playing at his lips. "Woah, Plato," he comments, without any real humor that would ruin the gravity of the moment. 

He doesn't bother to look away, his eyes intently focused on Steve's face as if he's looking for something. Then, he drops his head to his chest, pauses, and sucks in a shuddering breath as he raises it again, eyes swimming. 

"It's funny, because I thought you were the same, almost, but," he laughs quietly to himself, "you're different, and it helps. With the remembering." 

Steve matches his crooked smile with one of his own. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. It’s all sorts of small things, like– There, he had a birthmark right…" Tony trails off briefly as he points it out on Steve's skin, the tip of his finger just grazing his jaw, "there." 

Pulling back his arm and folding it over his chest, Tony looks at him with an open expression. He pulls his brows upward expectantly, and Steve gets the gist. Alright; he can play that game. He thinks for a moment, and then, 

"Your hair is lighter. Just a shade, maybe, but lighter." 

"Sure it isn't just the gray fooling you?" Tony returns, and his smile is almost wide enough to show teeth. Steve shakes his head firmly. "I'm sure."

"Alright, well…" when the brunet inches closer, Steve has to force himself to keep his breath steady, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected nearness. Tony squints and looks directly into his eyes. "There's some green. He never had any green at all, just blue."

Steve goes for the more obvious next. "He was taller. By that much, maybe," he says, holding his index finger and thumb about four inches apart. Tony voices a quiet _huh_ at the demonstration, but doesn't look all too bothered by the news. Maybe he's even on the taller side here, considering his designation. 

Tony doesn't break the silence again this time around, and since neither of them makes a move to bring some distance between their bodies, Steve becomes acutely aware of the lack of space. It's as if something in his brain refuses to give the command to make his legs move, because he seems to be stuck there, unable to get out of Tony's immediate vicinity or even look away from his dark eyes and blown pupils. 

Out of the two of them, it's Tony who moves. 

Steve's frozen in place and observes with gradually widening eyes as the other man leans closer, slow enough to think it through, slow enough to give him an out. Slow enough for both of them to realize what's happening long before their lips meet. 

His eyes close almost by themselves once he feels Tony's breath on his lips, every other part of him motionless. The shorter man lowers his hands onto Steve's chest to push himself up on his toes and finally press his lips down.

That first touch is exhilarating – the scratch of Tony's goatee is a sensation his brain associates with intimate familiarity, something Steve only realizes he's longed for when he is shown what he's been missing. 

For a moment, Steve dares to lean into the kiss, give it his everything as if he were somewhere else, sometime else, with another Tony altogether in front of him and the knowledge in mind that it'll be their last kiss in this lifetime. 

Tony backs off not suddenly but gradually, their lips' uncoupling stretching into infinity for a long moment until the point of contact is no more. The bliss, however, ends rather abruptly when Steve's met with the storm of emotions in the other's eyes. 

"Kiss different, too," he mumbles, voice inexplicably hoarse. Maybe it's the shock or an instinctual defense mechanism that makes him want to take the moment to bend and twist it until it's stripped of meaning.

Maybe he's as afraid of what this signifies as Tony looks. 

There's a second of absolute stillness in which neither of them blinks, Tony's hands on his chest a point of contact that sets his skin aflame even through the shirt. But it only lasts so long, and after Tony has squeezed his eyes shut, his gaze is frantic when he opens them again.

With a jolt, he backs away, the noise of his retreating footsteps loud in Steve's ears. 

He's only shaken out of his trance once the front door slams shut. Steve takes a steadying breath to combat the sudden dizziness. Then, he searches for Tony outside the kitchen window, quickly finding the man walking down the small jetty all the way to the end and taking a seat there.

It takes him a few minutes to get it together and follow Tony outside. Steve traces his footprints in the grass down to the lake. He lowers his feet to the planks heavier than necessary to alert Tony to his arrival, and after a moment's hesitation, sits down next to him.

Tony's feet are dangling just above the surface of the water; Steve watches and feels irrationally anxious about the likelihood of his socks getting wet. 

Tony doesn't look at him or react to his presence in any significant way, and so Steve makes himself break the silence. 

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have–" 

"Technically, I kissed _you,_ so that's on me."

"Technically, I let you." 

"Yeah, well. I knew you would."

Steve keeps his mouth shut, then, too mortified to even argue. That answers his question of whether or not he's been obvious with the supposedly secret looks. He should’ve backed off and kept his distance when he had the chance – only, Steve’s mostly positive he’s been doomed from the very beginning. There’s nothing that could’ve stopped the inexplicable draw Tony has on him, that soft yearning he’s felt in his chest only amplified with every hour spent in his presence.

Tony throws his head back and groans, a noise that instantly causes Steve to direct his attention back to him.

"I'm just, I'm confused about my own–” he cuts himself off and sighs in frustration. “I don't know why I– Does it mean my brain can't differentiate between you two? Does it mean I didn't _love_ him enough?“ 

“Oh, _God_ ," he says quietly, voice choked with tears. 

Then, the dam breaks. 

Although the guilt taking hold of him is unreasonable, Steve can't help but feel responsible. It's hard not to, witnessing the way Tony muffles his sobs in his fist in a last ditch effort to conceal his cries and curls in on himself tighter with every tremble that passes through his body. He wants to put a hand on his shoulder, pull him close and provide comfort, but where before the intimacy came naturally, it now feels like an invasion of privacy. 

And so Steve stays away, allows the abyss between them grow wider. It doesn't feel right, but neither does anything else, and he's out of options. 

It’s only after Tony has quieted down a bit that Steve dares to speak up cautiously, "Tony, maybe it'd be better if, uh. Maybe I should think about moving in with SHIELD."

With the switch of a flick that Steve alone is responsible for, the other man stills. As if put on hold, the flow of tears stops, and he looks up from his hands with red-rimmed eyes. 

"What? No. _No."_ His forehead creases with a frown and there's an angry tic to the corner of his mouth that contrasts heavily with the look of hurt betrayal that Steve never wanted to see in his eyes again. His expression is an open flesh wound, bleeding and exposed. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to show up here, turn my world upside down, and then disappear when things get messy." 

Steve rushes to explain himself. "That's not why I suggested it. You know there's nothing I want more than to stay here, but it's not working like this," he says, forcing out the words that are like barbed wire in his throat. He's fought multiple battles he thought he wouldn't return from, and yet this is one of the hardest things he's ever had to do.

"We need some space, both of us. I guess I should've listened when you asked me to leave in the first place but I'm…selfish, and when I was offered that opening, I didn't have the willpower to walk away. But I realize now that it's not fair to you, me piling my–my being here on you on top of everything else."

Tony looks at him like he's just told him the Earth is flat and then exhales a helpless chuckle that quickly evolves into a wet sniffle. 

"Why do _you_ get to decide what is and isn't fair to me?" he asks, voice increasing in volume with every word spoken, "I wanted you gone, yes, for including this reason, but the circumstances have changed. It's too late. You can't just up and leave now and tell me it's for my own _fucking_ good!" 

Steve winces, but doesn't avert his gaze. Tony's not wrong – it's different now, and he might make things worse with his good intentions. But then, he thinks of never quite being able to look away, never quite managing to say _no_ to himself when he should have, never quite keeping the distance Tony asked him to in the beginning and both of them suffering for it. Steve landed them here, in the aftermath of this kiss that Tony wishes he hadn't initiated and Steve wishes he didn't want again. 

As much as it hurts to draw a line in the sand, it's for both of their combined sanity. 

"I know, and I'm sorry, Tony, but– But right now, I think distance is a sensible solution until we figure out something else. It doesn't have to be forever," Steve answers, with resolve he doesn't feel. He mostly feels callous, and that feeling is reinforced once Tony's deathly glare crumbles and reveals the deep hurt beneath. 

When he buries his face back in the palms of his hands, there's silence. At first, Tony tries to suppress the noises and the shake of his body as he erratically sucks in air, but he soon gives up on hiding, too drained to even uphold any sort of pretense. Steve goes back and forth between wanting to hold him (knowing his comfort is unwanted) and wanting to leave him some privacy (knowing he'd seem cold if he left). 

So instead, he continues to sit there as Tony cries beside him, the space between them made insurmountable by what feels like a year's but is only a month's worth of confusing, contradicting emotions.

The last shreds of daylight vanish and the lake is a pitch-black pool of liquid below them when Tony’s sobs fade into silence, his breath hitching only occasionally once he's calmed down.

His body sinks against Steve with a soft thump, exhausted to the point he's slipped into a state between sleep and consciousness where their unspoken rules have no meaning. Steve's only a warm body Tony is instinctively leaning toward because keeling over the other side would mean ending up in the water. 

Steve sits there for a few minutes debating what to do, Tony's shape warm against his side. It's not the only sensation he's suddenly acutely aware of: when he wipes at his tired eyes, the back of his hand comes away wet. He doesn't remember crying, but then again, he was so focused on his guilt and Tony's breakdown a meteor could've struck in the backyard and he wouldn't have noticed. 

Finally, after making sure that Tony isn't awake anymore, Steve stands up and pulls the brunet securely into his arms. When he walks, the boards croak loudly underneath his feet, but Tony only frowns in his half-sleep and exhales a shuddering breath into Steve's shirt. Steve carries him into the house and up the stairs into his room, wrestling with doorknobs and handles in his way but ultimately succeeding. 

He's never been in Tony's bedroom. Steve pushes the door open hesitantly – despite his good intent, it feels as if he's intruding – and keeps the light off so as to not disturb the brunet in his sleep. The beige curtains are pulled open haphazardly, moonlight shifting through the gaps and drenching the room in a pale, cold sheen.

Crossing the soft carpet laid out over the better part of the hardwood, Steve approaches the king-sized bed, which is a mess. He lays Tony down tenderly, placing him in the middle of the giant nest of clothing items and other textiles. A nest: Steve figures that is what it is, based on all the educational reading he's been doing. He grabs the comforter from the foot of the bed and covers Tony's sleeping form with it, tucking it in around the edges of the nest. 

For a moment just before he leaves, Steve hesitates. Tony stirs a bit and buries his nose deeper into the wall of fabrics surrounding him, seemingly instinctively. A majority of it isn't his wardrobe either, which becomes apparent when looking at all the plaid shirts and khakis included in the arrangement. Maybe Tony can tell they still smell like him, even after all these months that have passed. 

It hurts to think about, those many little things Tony must desperately try to find comfort in in his grief, and Steve only manages to wrench his eyes away and leave the man after staring at him, lost in thought, for way too long. He leaves the room, chancing a look at Tony's curled-up form one more time before he pulls the door close gently. 

Now for the hard part. 

Steve gets the card from his nighstand; it's covered by three books, an unwrapped protein bar and a box of tissues.

He goes to look for his phone and finds it on the coffee table in the living room, where he sits down on the couch. He fidgets, stalls, fists his hands in his hair in frustration and turns the small device over in his hands until he nearly drops it.

After having a dozen internal arguments with himself and losing most of them to his brain's rationale, he finally calls the number. Steve doesn't even get a chance to second-guess his decision before the person on the other side picks up at the second ring.

He asks them to pick him up first thing next morning. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["sorrow" by sleeping at last](https://youtu.be/2ERJpT76rGw)
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> i'll be honest: there most likely will not be another upload in the next months (school sucks and it's my last year, so double the stress) unless i accidentally do crack and experience a sudden burst of writing fever, so i apologize in advance. but again: i won't abandon this fic and it's definitely getting finished, so no worries. 
> 
> and to everyone whose life has been impacted by covid-19 as well: be safe and hang in there! things are bound to get better.

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos make my day!


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